After reflecting deeply on all that had transpired, King Dasaratha, his senses overwhelmed by sorrow, suddenly fainted. For a long time he lay unconscious, tormented by grief. At last, the great king—destroyer of his enemies—regained his senses. When he awoke, he drew a heavy, warm sigh, his heart still aching. Glancing to his side, he saw Queen Kausalya, steadfast and gentle, and once again fell into troubled thought. As he pondered, memories of a long-past deed rose unbidden to his mind—a misdeed committed unknowingly in his youth, when, as a bowman, he had shot at a sound. Now, his mind was beset by twin sorrows: the grief of that ancient act and the fresh agony of being parted from his beloved Rama. Thus, the mighty king was tormented by both afflictions. Burning with pain and weighed down by grief, the lord of the earth turned to Kausalya. Trembling, he joined his hands in supplication, his face lowered, seeking her favor. With humility, he spoke: “O Kausalya, I beg you with these hands joined in reverence, for you are ever compassionate and kind, not only to me but to all. Truly, for a woman, the husband—whether he be virtuous or not—is, for those who reflect on righteousness, the visible deity in this world. You, who are ever devoted to righteousness and have seen the ways of the world, ought not speak harshly to one already so deeply afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and gentle words, Kausalya’s eyes filled with tears, which fell like fresh water streaming from a reed. She raised her lotus-like hands in reverence and placed them upon her head. Weeping and agitated, she spoke to the king, her words trembling 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 with harshness. O wise one, in neither this world nor the next is such a woman to be praised, 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 all—there is no enemy equal to grief. One may endure even 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 lost to sorrow, these five nights are like five years. As I keep thinking of him, this grief only grows in my heart, swelling like the ocean’s tide for those without support.” As Kausalya spoke her auspicious words, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. Thus, the king, comforted by the queen’s gentle words but still overcome by grief, finally surrendered to the power of sleep. Now listen to the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. Throughout the night, King Dasaratha awoke again and again, his mind unable to escape the grip of sorrow. He fell into deep thought, reflecting on the calamity that had befallen his house with the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana—a darkness that seemed to envelop his world, as if the Asuras themselves had swallowed the sun. When Rama had departed with Sita, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to Kausalya of lotus eyes, found his thoughts returning once more to his own ancient misdeed. Thus, after Rama’s departure to the forest, the king spent a sixth night, tormented and restless, recalling the wrong he had done in his youth. In the middle of that night, his heart heavy with grief for his son and the memory of his own sin, Dasaratha spoke to Kausalya, who herself was crushed by sorrow for Rama. He said, “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—be it good or bad—that alone, O fortunate one, 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. One who cuts down a mango grove but waters the palāśa trees—seeing their flowers, he longs for fruit, but when the fruiting season comes, he grieves. He who, without knowing the outcome, 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 Rama at the time of fruit, and now, foolish, I grieve. Because of a sound, O Kausalya, I, a prince bearing a bow, committed this sin, thinking myself a skillful shooter at sound. Therefore, O queen, this sorrow, self-caused, has come upon me—just as a child, in confusion, might mistakenly take poison. Just as another man might be deluded by the 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. Having enjoyed the pleasures of the earth, and as the sun, having heated the world with his rays, enters another region, as if following the path of the dead, so time passed. At once the sun held back his heat, the clouds appeared glossy, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted as if bathed with difficulty, shaken by rain and wind, flocked to the trees. The intoxicated deer, covered again and again by falling water, appeared like mountains massed with water. Streams, pure and flowing from the mountain slopes, white and red in color, streaked with ash, looked like serpents gliding down the hillsides.” Thus, Dasaratha, his heart heavy with memories and sorrow, poured out his lament to Kausalya as the night deepened around them.