With her head bowed low to the ground, Kausalya pleaded with Dasaratha, her voice trembling with sorrow, “Be gracious, my lord. I am already destroyed by your command—do not slay me further with harsh words.” She continued, “What woman, in either world, could be worthy of praise, O wise one, who, having such a husband, must still beg for his favor?” Kausalya’s heart was heavy, yet she spoke with clarity, “I know the ways of righteousness, and I know you too are a knower of dharma and a speaker of truth. But, tormented by grief for my son, I have uttered words unworthy of me.” Her lament deepened as she confessed, “Grief destroys courage, it destroys learning, it destroys everything—there is no enemy like grief. One may endure the blow of an enemy’s hand, but even the smallest sorrow is hard to bear.” She looked to Dasaratha and said, “Even ascetics, O hero, learned in righteousness, lose their sense of duty and right when their minds are clouded by sorrow. Today marks the fifth night since Rama went into exile; for me, whose joy is lost to grief, these five nights have stretched into five long years.” The pain in her heart surged as she spoke, “As I keep thinking of him, this sorrow grows within me, like the rising tide of the ocean for those without a shore.” As Kausalya poured out her heart, her auspicious words faded into the dusk, and the sun’s rays grew dim—the night was drawing near. The king, though somewhat comforted by her words, was yet overwhelmed by his own sorrow and soon fell into a restless sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. King Dasaratha awoke again and again through the night, his mind consumed by grief. He was plunged into deep thought, for with the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana, a calamity had entered his house—like the darkness cast by the Asuras swallowing the sun itself. As Rama departed with Sita, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to Kausalya, remembered a painful misdeed from his past. That sixth night after Rama’s exile, Dasaratha, tormented by memories and sorrow for his son, spoke to Kausalya, who herself was suffering from the same loss. “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—be it good or bad—that alone does he receive as the fruit of his own actions,” he said softly. “He who does not know the true value of wealth, or the consequences of his actions from their beginning, or their faults, is but a child. Imagine someone who cuts down a mango grove and instead waters the palāśa trees—seeing their flowers, he longs for fruit, but when the fruiting season comes, he grieves, for there is none.” He sighed, “One who acts without knowing the result grieves at the time of the fruit, just like the man who waters the kimśuka tree. So I, having cut down the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees, have now, in my folly, abandoned Rama at the time of fruit, and I grieve.” Dasaratha’s voice grew heavy as he recalled, “Because of a sound, O Kausalya, I, a prince with bow in hand, committed a terrible sin, thinking myself a skillful sound-shooter. Thus, this sorrow—self-caused—has come upon me, just as a child might unwittingly consume poison. As another man might be deluded by the palāśa trees, so too has the unknown fruit of my sound-shooting come to me.” He continued, “You were yet unmarried, O queen, and I had ascended the throne. The rainy season arrived, stirring my desires. Having enjoyed the pleasures of the earth, and as the sun, having heated the world, follows the path of the dead to another region, so too did I seek diversion. The sun withdrew his heat, clouds gathered, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced.” He described the scene, “Birds, their wings wet and uplifted, flocked to the trees, shaken by rain and wind. The deer, intoxicated and drenched, looked like mountains bathed in water. Streams flowed down the mountain slopes, white and red, streaked with ash, like serpents. Even the pure waters, reddened and agitated, overflowed their banks and ran wild with the coming of the rains.” “At that most pleasant time, armed with bow and arrows, eager for sport, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I lay in wait, seeking to kill a buffalo or elephant that might come to the river at night, or any other animal whose tracks I might find—my senses unrestrained.” He lowered his head, “There, alone at night, my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden in the brush. Hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened. In the darkness, I heard something moving in the water near a pot. Within earshot, I heard a sound like an elephant’s trumpet. So I drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like a serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, seeking an elephant, I released that deadly shaft.” His voice shook as he recalled, “Then, at dawn, a clear human voice rose from the forest, crying, ‘Alas, alas!’ as someone struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water. When my arrow struck, a human voice was heard: ‘How could a weapon fall upon one like me, devoted to austerity?’ The voice cried, ‘At night, I came to this secluded river to draw water; by whom have I been struck with an arrow? What wrong have I done to anyone?’” Thus, Dasaratha, tormented by memory and grief, confessed his long-buried sorrow to Kausalya, the pain of his past mingling with the anguish of the present.