Kausalya, her heart heavy with sorrow, spoke with gentle wisdom: “O wise one, a woman who must plead for her husband’s favor, despite his virtues, is not to be praised in this world or the next. I know the ways of righteousness, and I know you too are steadfast in dharma and truth; yet, overwhelmed by grief for my son, I have spoken words that were not proper. Grief is a terrible enemy—it destroys courage, erodes learning, and consumes all goodness. There is no foe equal to grief. One might endure the blow of an enemy’s hand, but even the smallest sorrow, once it takes root, is hard to bear. Even great ascetics, learned and righteous, can lose their way in duty and worldly matters when their minds are clouded by grief. “Today marks the fifth night since Rama left for the forest. For me, whose joy has been swept away by sorrow, these five nights have felt like five years. As I think of him constantly, this grief only swells within my heart, rising like the ocean’s tide for one who has lost all support.” As Kausalya spoke these auspicious words, the sun’s rays faded and night began to fall. The king, comforted by her words yet still overcome by his own grief, finally succumbed to sleep. Now, listen to the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. King Dasaratha awoke again and again through the night, his mind tormented by sorrow. With the exile of both Rama and Lakshmana, a calamity had befallen him, as if even mighty Indra had been struck, and a darkness like that of the Asuras had swallowed the sun. As Rama departed with Sita, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak with dark-eyed Kausalya, found his mind returning to an old misdeed. That night, the sixth since Rama’s departure, Dasaratha lay awake, recalling his past wrongs. Tormented by grief for his son, and remembering his own transgression, he spoke to Kausalya, who herself suffered from sorrow for her beloved child. He said, “O noble lady, whatever a person does—good or bad—that alone they must reap as the fruit of their actions. One who does not understand the value of wealth, or the consequences of actions at their outset, or their hidden faults, is truly a child. Consider this: a man who cuts down a mango grove and then waters the palāśa trees may delight in their flowers, but when the season for fruit arrives, he grieves, for the palāśa yields none. So too, one who acts without knowing the outcome, mourns when the results come, just as the man who waters the kimśuka tree. “In the same way, I have abandoned Rama, like one who destroys his mangoes and tends to palāśas, and now, foolish, I grieve at the time of fruit. Because of a sound, O Kausalya, I, a prince with a bow, committed a great sin, thinking myself a skillful hunter—a sound-shooter. Thus, this sorrow, self-created, has come upon me, as confusion might lead a child to poison. “Just as another man is deceived by palāśa trees, so too have I been deluded by the fruit of sound-shooting, whose outcome I did not know. “You were yet unmarried, O queen, and I had become king. Then the rainy season arrived, stirring my desires. I enjoyed the pleasures of the earth, while the sun, after spreading his heat, seemed to vanish into another world, as if following the path of the departed. “The sun withdrew his warmth, clouds gathered, and all around, frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted, battered by rain and wind, flocked to the trees. The intoxicated deer, cloaked again and again in falling rain, looked like living mountains. Streams, though pure, rushed down mountain slopes, white and red, streaked with ash, like serpents. The waters, reddened and agitated, overflowed their banks and ran wild with the coming of the rains. “At that most delightful time, I took up my bow and arrows, and for sport, drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I waited, hoping to hunt a buffalo or elephant that might come to the river at night, or any other animal whose tracks I could find. My senses were unchecked, my mind restless. “There, alone in the night, my bow drawn, I struck down a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden in the brush. Hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened closely. In the darkness, I heard the sound of something moving in the water near a pot. Within hearing distance, the noise was like an elephant’s trumpet. I drew a sharp arrow, blazing like a serpent’s venom, and aimed at the sound, thinking it an elephant. I released that deadly arrow, swift as poison. “But then, at dawn, a clear human voice cried out from the forest—‘Alas, alas!’—as one struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water. When my arrow struck, it was a human voice I heard: ‘How could a weapon fall upon one like me, devoted to austerity? 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? How can one like me, a sage who has renounced violence and lives in the forest on wild food, be slain by a weapon?