With hands joined in reverence, King Dasaratha beseeched Kausalya, his heart heavy with sorrow. “O Kausalya,” he implored, “you are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. For women, the husband—virtuous or not—is regarded by those who reflect on righteousness as the visible deity in this world. You, always devoted to righteousness and wise in the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one already deeply afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s words, so full of grief and compassion, Kausalya’s tears flowed like fresh water from a reed. Binding her hands in reverence and placing them upon her head, she spoke, her voice trembling with agitation 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. 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 may endure a blow from an enemy’s hand, but even the slightest grief that arises 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. Thus, the king, cheered by her words yet overcome by sorrow, fell under the power of sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. King Dasaratha awakened repeatedly, his mind overwhelmed by grief, and then fell into deep thought. With the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana, a calamity befell him, as if Indra himself had suffered, and a darkness like that of the Asuras enveloped the sun. When Rama had departed with Sita, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to Kausalya of dark eyes, remembered his own misdeed. He spent the sixth night after Rama had gone to the forest, recalling the wrong he had done, in the middle of the night. Tormented by grief for his son, and remembering his own misdeed, the king spoke to Kausalya, who herself was afflicted by grief for her son. “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—whether 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. 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.” He continued, “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.” The king then began to recount the events of the past. “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. At the watering places, seeking to kill a buffalo or an elephant that had come to the river at night, or some other animal whose tracks I might find, I, with uncontrolled senses, lay in wait. There, alone at night, my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, concealed in the brush. Hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened; then, in the darkness, I heard the noise of something moving in the water near a pot.” Thus, Dasaratha’s grief and guilt poured forth, as he remembered the fateful act that set the course of sorrow in his life.