Kausalya, her heart heavy with sorrow for her son, spoke with a trembling voice: “I know what is righteous, and I know you too as one learned in righteousness and ever truthful. Yet, overwhelmed by grief for my son, I have spoken words that were not proper. Grief, truly, is the destroyer of all virtues—it saps courage, erases learning, and leaves nothing untouched. There is no foe in this world as formidable as grief. A blow from an enemy’s hand may be endured, but even the smallest pang of sorrow is nearly unbearable. “Even ascetics, O hero—those wise in the ways of dharma and learned in the scriptures—can lose their understanding of what is right and what brings true wealth, when their minds are clouded by sorrow. Today marks the fifth night since Rama departed for the forest; for me, whose happiness is lost in this grief, these five nights have felt like five long years. The more I think of him, the more my sorrow swells in my heart, rising like the tide of a great ocean for one who has no support.” As Kausalya uttered these auspicious words, the sun’s rays faded and night drew near. King Dasaratha, comforted by her words but still overwhelmed by his own grief, at last yielded to the power of sleep. Now, listen to the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Ramayana, as composed by Valmiki, in the Ayodhya Kanda. Throughout the night, King Dasaratha awoke again and again, his mind restless and churning with grief. The exile of both Rama and Lakshmana had brought calamity upon the kingdom, a darkness as deep as that which the Asuras cast over the sun. When Rama had departed with Sita, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to Kausalya—she of the beautiful, dark eyes—found his mind returning to a long-ago misdeed. That sixth night since Rama’s departure, the king lay awake, tormented by sorrow for his son and by memories of his own error. At last, he spoke to Kausalya, herself stricken with grief for her beloved son. “O noble lady,” Dasaratha began, “whatever a person does—be it good or bad—that alone must he reap as the fruit of his own actions. He who does not understand the true value of wealth, nor the outcome of his deeds at the outset, nor their faults, is but a child. It is like a man who, having cut down a grove of mango trees, waters the palāśa trees instead. When he sees the palāśa flowers, he hopes for fruit, but when the season comes, he grieves, for there is none. So it is with one who acts without knowing the true result: he sorrows at the harvest, like the one who waters the kimśuka tree, expecting fruit that will never come. “In this way, I too, having cut down the mango grove and tended the palāśa trees, have abandoned Rama at the very time he should have borne fruit for me, and now, in my folly, I grieve. It was because of a sound, Kausalya—a sound mistaken by a prince with a bow—that I committed a terrible sin, thinking myself a skillful sound-shooter. Thus, this sorrow, born of my own actions, has come upon me; out of ignorance, as a child might swallow poison, I too have brought this upon myself. Just as another is deceived by the palāśa trees, so now I, not knowing the true fruit of my deed, suffer for the killing by sound. “You were yet unmarried, O queen, and I had just ascended the throne. Then the rainy season came, stirring new desires within me. I enjoyed the pleasures of the world, and as the sun, after warming the earth, passes to another realm as if following the path of the departed, so too did the season change. The sun’s heat withdrew, glossy clouds gathered, and all the frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. The birds, their wings wet and raised, flocked to the trees, shaken by the wind and rain. The deer, intoxicated by the season, seemed like mountains shrouded in water, and streams—white and red, streaked with ash—flowed down the mountains like serpents. Even the pure waters, reddened and agitated, overflowed their banks and wandered from their course as the rains came. “At that most pleasant time, armed with my bow and arrows and eager for exercise, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I lay in wait—my senses unrestrained—seeking to hunt a buffalo, an elephant, or any wild creature whose tracks I might find. There, alone at night, bow drawn, I slew what I believed to be a wild animal that had come to the riverbank, hidden in the brush. “Hearing another fierce sound approach, I listened closely. In the darkness, I heard the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. Within my hearing, the sound was like an elephant trumpeting, so I drew a sharp arrow, as deadly as serpent’s venom, and shot, aiming only at the sound, thinking to strike an elephant. “But then, at dawn, a clear human voice rang out from the forest, crying ‘Alas, alas!’ as one struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water. When the arrow struck, I heard a human voice exclaim: ‘How could a weapon fall upon one such as I, 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? Who would seek my death, burdened as I am with matted hair, clad in bark and skins? What harm have I done to him?