Even the most steadfast ascetics, learned in righteousness and wise in duty, can become bewildered when grief clouds their minds, O hero. Such is the power of sorrow that even wisdom falters before it. For me, the agony of separation from Rama has destroyed all joy; though only five nights have passed since he departed for the forest, each night has stretched into what feels like a year. As I dwell on his absence, my grief swells within my heart, surging like the ocean for those who have no support. As Kausalya spoke these auspicious words, the sun’s rays faded and night descended. King Dasaratha, though comforted by her gentle speech, remained overwhelmed by sorrow and soon fell under the spell of sleep. Now, listen to the sixty-third sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. King Dasaratha, restless through the night, repeatedly awoke, his mind consumed by grief. The exile of both Rama and Lakshmana had brought a calamity upon him, as if darkness itself had descended, obscuring the light like the Asuras enveloping the sun. As Rama departed with Sita, the lord of Kosala wished to speak to Kausalya, whose eyes were dark with sorrow, and his own misdeed weighed heavily on his mind. After Rama had left for the forest, Dasaratha spent the sixth night tormented by memories of his past mistake. In the middle of the night, afflicted by grief for his son, he spoke to Kausalya, herself suffering from the same sorrow. He said, “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—whether good or bad—that alone is the fruit they must reap. Only the ignorant fail to understand the true nature of wealth, the outcome of actions, or their faults at the outset; such is the behavior of children. Consider the one who, having destroyed a mango grove, waters palāśa trees. When he sees their flowers, he hopes for fruit, but grieves when the season comes and there is none. So too, one who acts without understanding the consequences will mourn when the results appear, just like the man who waters the kimśuka tree in vain. I am such a fool. I destroyed the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees; I abandoned Rama at the time of fruit, and now I grieve for my folly. Because of a sound, O Kausalya, I committed a sin with my bow, believing myself a ‘sound-shooter.’ Thus, this sorrow has come upon me, self-caused, as confusion leads a child to poison. Just as another is deceived by the promise of palāśa trees, so too has the unknown fruit of shooting by sound come upon me. You were unmarried, O queen, and I had become king. Then came the rainy season, stirring my desires. I enjoyed the pleasures of the earth, and as the sun’s heat waned and he moved to another region, the world seemed to follow the path of the dead. The sun’s warmth retreated, glossy clouds appeared, and frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted, gathered in the trees, shaken by rain and wind. Deer, intoxicated and drenched by the falling water, resembled mountains heavy with rain. Pure streams flowed down the mountain slopes, white and red, streaked with ash like serpents. The streams, agitated and reddened, overflowed their banks and ran wild with the coming of the rains. At that most pleasant time, armed with bow and arrows and eager for exercise, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I lay in wait, hoping to kill a buffalo or elephant that had come to the river at night, or any animal whose tracks I might find. My senses were uncontrolled. Alone at night, bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, hidden in the brush. Hearing the sound of another fierce animal, I listened intently. In the darkness, I heard something moving in the water near a pot. Within hearing range, the sound resembled an elephant’s trumpet. I drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, released it, desiring an elephant. Then, at dawn, a clear human voice arose from the forest, crying out in anguish as one struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water. When the arrow struck, I heard a human voice: ‘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? Who would seek my death, burdened as I am with matted hair, clad in bark and skins? What harm have I done to him? Such an act, fruitless and only bringing harm, would be condemned by all, just as one who approaches his teacher’s wife. I do not grieve so much for the loss of my own life, but for my mother and father, who are like me. That aged couple, long supported by me—when I am gone, who will care for them?