That mighty-armed hero, Rāma—whose golden arrows could consume living beings and even the vast oceans, as if at the end of an age—had the strength of a lion, eyes like a bull, and stood foremost among men. Yet, such a son, radiant and powerful, was undone by his own father, just as if the lotus-born son were destroyed by the very one who gave him life. Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, was overcome with sorrow and anger. She spoke with pained urgency, “If, O king, you, devoted to righteousness, have exiled your own son—what then of the conduct of twice-born men, the eternal righteousness praised in the scriptures? For a woman, her only refuge is her husband; her second support is her son, her third is her relatives. Beyond these, she has no one in this world. “Now, with Rāma gone to the forest, neither you nor he remain for me. I do not wish to follow him into exile—I am truly destroyed by your command. By your hand, this kingdom with all its provinces is ruined; my own self and my ministers are lost; I, with my son, am bereft, and so are the citizens—yet your son and wife rejoice.” Hearing these harsh and sorrowful words, King Daśaratha, though already deeply grieved, collapsed into a swoon. Overcome by sorrow, the ruler of men was again reminded of his own past misdeeds. Thus begins the sixty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. The king, distressed by Kausalyā’s bitter words, reflected in deep anguish. His senses disturbed, he fainted once more, and only after a long time did the tormentor of foes regain consciousness. When he awoke, he sighed deeply and, seeing Kausalyā at his side, fell once more into troubled thought. The memory of a grievous act from his past—committed unknowingly as a hunter who shoots by sound—rose in his mind. Now, tormented by both the sorrow for his son and the weight of his old misdeed, the great king was overwhelmed. Burning with grief, trembling, and with hands joined in supplication, Daśaratha spoke to Kausalyā, his face bowed and seeking her favor: “I entreat you, Kausalyā, with these hands joined in reverence. You are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. For women, the husband—virtuous or not—is, for those who reflect on righteousness, the visible deity in this world. You, ever devoted to righteousness and wise in the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one already so afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and compassionate words, Kausalyā’s tears flowed like fresh water from a reed. With hands joined in reverence and placed upon her head, she—agitated, weeping, and trembling—spoke with haste and fear: “Be gracious, I beg you, with my head bowed to the ground. I am already destroyed, O lord, by your command—do not slay me further. She is not a woman to be praised, O wise one, in either world, who, having such a husband, must plead for his favor. I know righteousness, and I know you as a knower of righteousness and a speaker of truth; but, afflicted by grief for my son, I have spoken something improper. “Grief destroys courage, grief destroys learning; grief destroys everything—there is no enemy equal to grief. It is possible to endure a blow from an enemy’s hand, but even the slightest grief that has arisen is hard to bear. Even ascetics, O hero, who know righteousness and are learned, become confused in their understanding of duty and wealth when their minds are clouded by grief. Today is the fifth night since Rāma went to the forest; for me, whose joy is destroyed by grief, these five nights are like five years. As I keep thinking of him, this grief grows in my heart, like the great surge of water in the ocean for those without support.” As Kausalyā spoke these auspicious words, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. The king, cheered by her gentle words yet overcome by grief, finally fell into the power of sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. King Daśaratha, awakening again and again, his mind still heavy with sorrow, fell into deep thought. With the exile of both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, a calamity like that which once befell mighty Indra descended upon him—a darkness as deep as that of the Asuras swallowing the sun. When Rāma had departed with Sītā, the lord of Kośala, wishing to speak to the dark-eyed Kausalyā, was again haunted by the memory of his own misdeed. After Rāma’s departure to the forest, Daśaratha spent the sixth night recalling the wrong he had done, sleepless in the middle of the night. Tormented by grief for his son and the burden of his past, the king spoke to Kausalyā, who was herself afflicted by longing for her child. He said, “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—whether good or bad—that alone does the doer obtain as the fruit of his own actions. He who does not know the weight or lightness of wealth, or the result of actions at their beginning, or their faults, is called a child. Someone, having cut down a mango grove, waters the palāśa trees; seeing their flowers, he longs for fruit, but grieves when the fruiting season comes. He who, without knowing the result, pursues an action, grieves at the time of its fruit, like the one who waters the kimśuka tree. “So I, having cut down the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees, have abandoned Rāma at the time of fruit, and now, foolish, I grieve.” Thus, the night deepened, heavy with sorrow, as the king and queen mourned the absence of their beloved son, each weighed down by grief and the consequences of their own actions.