King Dasaratha, regaining consciousness from his grief, sighed deeply and warmly. As he looked up, he saw Queen Kausalya at his side, and once again fell into deep thought. In his pondering, a painful memory surfaced—a misdeed he had committed long ago without knowledge, as a shooter at sound. Now, his mind was overwhelmed, tormented by both the sorrow of that past error and the fresh agony of his beloved son Rama’s exile. Burning with grief, Dasaratha, the lord of the earth, turned to Kausalya. His body trembled; his hands were joined in supplication, his face lowered, as he sought her favor. In a voice heavy with emotion, he pleaded, “Kausalya, I entreat you with these hands joined in reverence. You are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. Indeed, 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 experienced in the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one already so deeply afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and compassionate words, Kausalya’s tears flowed freely, like fresh water streaming from a reed. She raised her hands, lotus-like, in reverence upon her head and, weeping and agitated, spoke trembling words to the king, her voice hurried and fearful. “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. One can endure a blow from an enemy’s hand, but even the slightest grief is hard to bear. Even ascetics, O hero, learned and righteous, become confused in their understanding of duty and wealth when their minds are clouded by grief.” She continued, “Today is the fifth night since Rama went to the forest. For me, whose joy is destroyed by grief, these five nights feel like five years. As I keep thinking of him, this grief grows in my heart, like a great surge of water in the ocean for those without support.” As Kausalya spoke her auspicious words, the sun’s rays faded and night approached. The king, cheered by Queen Kausalya’s words yet still overcome by grief, finally succumbed to sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. King Dasaratha, awakening again and again, found his mind consumed by grief. He fell into deep thought, mourning the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana. It was as if a calamity befitting Indra himself had descended upon him, and a darkness like that of the Asuras had enveloped the sun. When Rama had departed with his wife, Dasaratha, lord of Kosala, wished to speak to Kausalya of dark eyes, but his own misdeed returned to his memory. After Rama’s departure to the forest, the king spent the sixth night recalling the wrong he had done, especially in the stillness of midnight. Tormented by grief for his son and remembering his past error, Dasaratha spoke to Kausalya, herself afflicted by grief for her son. He said, “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—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 arrives. He who, unaware of 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 Rama at the time of fruit, and now, foolish, I grieve.” He confessed, “Because of a sound, O Kausalya, 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 man might be deluded by palāśa trees, so too, for me, the fruit of shooting by sound, unknown, has come.” He reflected further, “You were unmarried, O queen, and I became king; then the rainy season arrived, increasing my desires. Having enjoyed the earthly delights, and heated the world with his rays, the sun enters another region, as if following the path of the dead. At once he held heat within, the clouds appeared glossy; then all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. With wings wet and uplifted, as if bathed with difficulty, the birds, shaken by rain and wind, flocked to the trees. Covered again and again by falling water, the intoxicated deer appeared like a mountain massed with water. Streams, though pure, flowed from the mountain slopes, white and red in color, streaked with ash, like serpents. Even the pure streams, their waters reddened and agitated, began to overflow their banks and run off course with the coming of the rains.” Thus, Dasaratha’s heart poured out its sorrow, his mind wandering through memories of both past mistakes and the natural world’s changing seasons, all colored by the pain of separation from Rama.