As King Dasaratha sat lost in thought, a painful memory surfaced in his mind—a misdeed from long ago, committed unknowingly when he had shot at a sound, not seeing its source. This recollection, mingled with the sorrow he felt over Rāma’s exile, overwhelmed the great king, tormenting him with grief from both his past and his present. Consumed by anguish and sorrow, Dasaratha—the lord of the earth—approached Kausalya. He trembled, his hands joined in supplication, his face turned downward, seeking her favor. With reverence, he pleaded, “Kausalya, I entreat you with these hands joined. You are always compassionate and kind, even to others. Truly, for women, the husband—whether virtuous or not—is, for those who reflect on righteousness, the visible deity in this world. You, 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, Kausalya’s tears flowed like fresh water from a reed. She raised her lotus-like hands in reverence to her head, and, weeping and agitated, spoke trembling words to the king, 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. 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 counted as 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 great surge of water in the ocean for those without support.” As Kausalya spoke these auspicious words, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. The king, comforted by her words yet still overcome by grief, finally fell under the power of sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. King Dasaratha, awakening repeatedly through the night, found his mind overcome by grief. With the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana, a calamity had entered his life, like the darkness of the Asuras enveloping the sun. When Rama had departed with his wife, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to Kausalya of dark eyes, remembered his own misdeed. After Rama had gone to the forest, the king spent the sixth night recalling the wrong he had done, especially in the middle of the night. Tormented by grief for his son and remembering his own misdeed, Dasaratha spoke to Kausalya, who herself was afflicted by grief for her son. 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 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 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, 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. 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. At that most pleasant time, armed with bow and arrows, intent on exercise, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river.” Thus, Dasaratha began to unfold the story of his past, the sorrow that now weighed so heavily upon his heart, and the chain of actions that had led to his present grief.