Queen Kausalyā, her face drawn and streaked with tears, spoke in sorrow to Sumitrā and the other royal women gathered around her. She pointed out the sacred place where those who had done no wrong—her son Rāma, Sumitrā’s son Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā—now dwelled, deprived of their kingdom and afflicted by exile in the forest. Kausalyā reminded Sumitrā that her son, Lakṣmaṇa, tirelessly fetched water for Rāma, always acting out of devotion to his elder brother. Even Sumitrā’s youngest son, she lamented, had done nothing blameworthy; all his actions were guided by virtue and meant for Rāma’s sake. Kausalyā urged that, even now, Lakṣmaṇa—though unaccustomed to hardship—should never resort to any base or unworthy act, even if suffering pressed upon him. Her wide, sorrowful eyes fell upon the southern-pointed blades of darbha grass, where she saw on the ground the ingudi seed cake left by her husband, King Daśaratha. Seeing what Rāma had placed there in grief for his father, Kausalyā spoke to all the wives of Daśaratha, “Behold this offering Rāghava has given to his great father, lord of the Ikṣvāku line. See how it was offered according to proper rites.” She mourned, “For that king, whose greatness was like the gods, this food does not seem fitting, after he enjoyed all pleasures. Having ruled the earth to its four corners, as lordly as Mahendra, how does the ruler of the world now eat only ingudi fruit and pressed cakes?” Nothing, she said, seemed more painful than seeing prosperous Rāma offer his father only ingudi fruit and honey. “Seeing Rāma give his father ingudi cakes, how does my heart not shatter into a thousand pieces from grief?” She reflected, “Indeed, this worldly saying seems true: as is a person’s food, so are the deities who preside over him.” The co-wives, seeing Kausalyā so afflicted, comforted her, and in the hermitage they beheld Rāma, like a god fallen from heaven. The mothers, tormented by grief, shed tears aloud as they gazed upon Rāma, who had renounced all enjoyments. Rāma, steadfast and true to his word, rose and touched the blessed feet of all his mothers. With soft, tender fingers, those women gently wiped the dust from Rāma’s back. Saumitri, Lakṣmaṇa, seeing all the mothers distressed, greeted them respectfully and deeply after Rāma. All the women showed Lakṣmaṇa the same affection as they did for Rāma, recognizing him as Dasharatha’s son marked by auspicious signs. Sītā, sorrowful, touched the feet of her mothers-in-law and stood before them, her eyes filled with tears. Kausalyā embraced Sītā, distressed as a mother with her daughter, and spoke to her, who was emaciated and dejected from life in the forest. “How has Sītā, daughter of the king of Videha, daughter-in-law of Dasharatha, wife of Rāma, come to such suffering in this lonely forest?” Kausalyā grieved, “Seeing your face, scorched like a lotus by the sun, withered like a waterlily, gold dulled by dust, or the moon dimmed by clouds—O Vaidehi, your suffering burns me with grief as fire consumes its fuel, and sorrow, born of misfortune, torments my heart.” While Kausalyā spoke thus in distress, Rāma, the elder brother of Bharata, approached and touched the feet of Vasiṣṭha. Like Indra approaching Brihaspati, Rāma, radiant and prosperous, respectfully took the feet of the priest, equal to fire, and sat down with him. Bharata, devoted to righteousness, sat near his elder brother, accompanied by his ministers, chief citizens, soldiers, and people who understood dharma. Seated thus, mighty Bharata, with hands joined in reverence, gazed upon Rāghava, who shone with splendor like a sage, just as devoted Indra would look upon Prajāpati. A great curiosity arose among the noble assembly: What words would Bharata speak today, after bowing respectfully to Rāghava? There, Rāghava, steadfast in truth, Lakṣmaṇa of great prowess, and righteous Bharata, surrounded by their friends, shone in the assembly like three sacred fires with their priests. Thus ended the one hundred and third sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then Rāma, perceiving his brother’s devotion to his elders, began to question him, together with Lakṣmaṇa. “I wish to hear what you have spoken, and for what reason you, wearing bark garments and matted hair, have come to this place. For what purpose have you, clad in black antelope skin and with matted locks, entered this forest, abandoning the kingdom? You ought to tell me everything.” Thus addressed by the great-souled descendant of Kakutstha, Bharata, son of Kaikeyī, with joined palms and great effort, spoke these words: “Our noble father, having performed a most difficult deed, abandoned his life and went to heaven, tormented by grief for his son. Urged by a woman, my mother Kaikeyī, O subduer of enemies, he committed this great sin that destroyed his own honor. She, my mother, deprived of the fruit of the kingdom, widowed and consumed by sorrow, will fall into a terrible hell. Therefore, as your servant, I beg your favor; be consecrated as king today, just as Maghavan was anointed. All these citizens and widowed mothers who have come to you deserve your grace.