King Dasaratha, lion-hearted and mighty among men, was plunged into sorrow by his own actions, as though a lotus-born son were destroyed by his father’s hand. The ancient codes of conduct for the twice-born, the eternal righteousness taught in the scriptures—these were invoked by Queen Kausalya, who, seeing her son exiled despite his devotion to dharma, confronted her husband in anguish. She lamented that a woman’s only refuge is her husband, then her son, then her relatives; beyond these, she has no shelter. Now, with Rama banished to the forest, neither Dasaratha nor Rama remained for her. She declared she had no wish to follow Rama into exile, feeling utterly ruined by her husband’s decree. Her grief extended to all: the kingdom and its provinces were destroyed by Dasaratha’s actions; her own self and the ministers were ruined; she and her son were lost, as were the citizens—while Dasaratha’s other son and wife rejoiced. Hearing these harsh words, the king, already wounded by sorrow, fell into a swoon. Overcome by his misery, he remembered his own past misdeeds. Thus begins the sixty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Dasaratha, distressed, heard Kausalya’s angry and sorrowful reproaches and reflected deeply, torn by grief. His senses disturbed, he fainted; after a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. He sighed deeply, and seeing Kausalya at his side, fell into thought once more. The memory of a past misdeed returned to him—the act he had committed long ago, unknowingly, as a shooter at sound. Tormented by both the sorrow of that act and grief for Rama, Dasaratha was overwhelmed. Burning with anguish, trembling, his hands joined in supplication, his face lowered, he spoke to Kausalya, seeking her favor: “I entreat you, Kausalya, with these hands joined in reverence; for you are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. Indeed, 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, who have seen the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one who is already deeply afflicted, even though you are yourself in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and compassionate words, Kausalya’s tears flowed like fresh water from a reed. She placed her hands, lotus-like, upon her head in reverence, and, weeping and agitated, spoke trembling words to Dasaratha, hastily and fearfully: “Be gracious, I beg you with my head bowed to the ground; I am already destroyed 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 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 Rama 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 surging ocean for those without support.” As Kausalya spoke these auspicious words, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. The king, cheered by her words yet still overcome by grief, fell under the power of sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Dasaratha, awakening repeatedly, his mind overwhelmed by sorrow, fell into deep thought. With the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana, a calamity befell the kingdom, as if darkness like that of the Asuras enveloped the sun. When Rama departed with Sita, Dasaratha, wishing to speak to Kausalya of dark eyes, recalled his own misdeed. The king spent the sixth night after Rama’s departure in the forest, remembering the wrong he had done in the middle of the night. Tormented by grief for his son and his own past sin, Dasaratha spoke to Kausalya, herself afflicted by grief: “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 the 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 one who waters the kimśuka tree. So I, having cut down the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees, have abandoned Rama at the time of fruit, and now, foolish, I grieve. Because of a sound, O Kausalya, by a prince bearing a bow, I committed this sin, thinking, ‘He is a sound-shooter.’” So Dasaratha, weighed down by sorrow and regret, confessed his grief and the consequences of his actions to Kausalya, bearing the heavy burden of his choices as night enveloped the royal household.