When Rāma had departed for the forest, Queen Kausalyā, overwhelmed by sorrow and anger, spoke bitterly to King Daśaratha. She lamented, “Now, neither you nor Rāma remain for me. Rāma has gone to the forest, and I do not wish to go there myself. Truly, I am destroyed by your actions. By your doing, this kingdom with all its provinces is ruined; my own self and my ministers are lost. I, along with my son, am finished, as are the citizens—yet your other son and wife rejoice.” Hearing these harsh words, the king, though already stricken with grief, fainted away. Overcome by sorrow, he lost consciousness, and as he lay there, memories of his past misdeeds flooded his mind. Thus begins the sixty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. The king, distressed and shaken by Kausalyā’s angry words, reflected deeply, his heart filled with pain. His senses disturbed, he again fainted, and only after a long interval did the tormentor of foes return to consciousness. Waking, he sighed heavily and, seeing Kausalyā by his side, fell once more into troubled thought. His mind wandered back to a grievous act he had committed long ago, unwittingly, when he had shot at a sound, believing it to be an animal. Now, burdened by the sorrow of his past and by the agony over Rāma’s exile, Daśaratha was tormented on all sides. Burning with grief, trembling, and with hands joined in supplication, he turned to Kausalyā, his gaze lowered, seeking her favor. He pleaded, “I entreat you, Kausalyā, with hands joined in reverence. You are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. For women, the husband—whether 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 who is already so deeply afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and gentle words, Kausalyā’s eyes filled with tears, which fell like fresh water from a reed. She placed her joined hands, like a lotus, upon her head in reverence, and, weeping and trembling, spoke hastily and in fear to the king: “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 surging ocean for those without support.” As Kausalyā spoke these auspicious words, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. The king, comforted by her words but still overwhelmed by grief, succumbed to the power of sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Throughout the night, Daśaratha awoke again and again, his mind weighed down by sorrow. He fell into deep thought, reflecting on the calamity that had befallen his house with the exile of both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—a calamity as dire as if darkness had enveloped the sun, like the Asuras overtaking Indra. When Rāma had left with Sītā, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to Kausalyā, remembered once more his own past misdeed. That night, the sixth since Rāma’s departure, Daśaratha was unable to sleep, haunted by the wrong he had done. Tormented by grief for his son and by memories of his own error, he spoke to Kausalyā, herself suffering from the absence of her beloved 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. Just as someone who, having cut down a mango grove, waters the palāśa trees, and, seeing the flowers, longs for fruit but grieves when the fruiting season comes—so too is one who, without knowing the result, pursues an action and grieves at its outcome, like 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. Because of a sound, O Kausalyā—by a prince bearing a bow—I committed this sin, thinking, ‘He is a sound-shooter.’ Therefore, O queen, this sorrow, self-caused, has come upon me; through confusion, as by a child, poison might be eaten here. Just as another is deluded by palāśa trees, so too, for me, the fruit of shooting by sound, unknown, has come. “You were unmarried, O queen, and I became king; then the rainy season arrived, increasing my desires…” Thus, Daśaratha poured out his heart, weighed down by the sorrow of separation from his son and the burden of his own past deeds, while Kausalyā, though grieving, remained by his side, sharing in the suffering that had overtaken the royal house.