In the sacred forest, the wives of King Daśaratha gathered at the place where those noble souls—blameless in their actions—had been cast out from their kingdom and now lived deprived and afflicted. Queen Kausalyā spoke, pointing out the tireless devotion of Sumitrā’s son, Lakṣmaṇa, who continually fetched water for Rama, ever diligent in his service. She praised even the youngest son, Shatrughna, who, though innocent of any wrongdoing, acted only with virtue for the sake of his brother. Kausalyā urged that, even now, Lakṣmaṇa—unaccustomed to hardship—should shun any act that is base or unworthy, for such deeds only bring suffering. As they walked about the hermitage, Kausalyā’s wide eyes fell upon the southern-pointed blades of darbha grass, and there she saw on the ground the ingudi seed cake left by her husband. Seeing what Rama, in his grief for his father, had placed upon the earth, Queen Kausalyā addressed all the wives of Daśaratha. “Behold this offering,” she said, “given by Rāghava to his great father, the lord of the Ikṣvāku line, according to proper rites. But for a king whose greatness rivaled the gods, I do not think this food is fitting, after he has enjoyed every pleasure. Having ruled the earth to its four ends, as lordly as Mahendra, how does the ruler of the world now eat only ingudi fruit and pressed cakes?” Her voice trembled with sorrow. “Nothing in this world seems more painful than this: that Rama, once so prosperous, should offer his father only ingudi fruit and honey. Seeing Rama give his father these simple cakes, how does my heart not shatter into a thousand pieces from grief? Indeed, the saying seems true: as is a person’s food, so are the deities who preside over him.” Moved by her distress, the co-wives comforted Kausalyā, and within the hermitage they beheld Rama, radiant like a god fallen from heaven. The mothers, tormented by sorrow at the sight of Rama who had renounced all enjoyments, shed tears aloud. Rama, true to his word and a tiger among men, rose and reverently touched the feet of all his mothers. With gentle, tender fingers, those wide-eyed women wiped the dust from Rama’s back. Saumitri—Lakṣmaṇa—too, seeing the mothers distressed, respectfully greeted them in turn after Rama, showing deep feeling. The women showed Lakṣmaṇa the same affection as they did Rama, for he too was born of Daśaratha and marked by auspicious signs. Sita, sorrowful, touched the feet of her mothers-in-law and stood before them, her eyes brimming with tears. Kausalyā embraced Sita, distressed as a mother with her daughter, and spoke to her, who was emaciated and dejected from the hardships of forest life. “How has Sita, daughter of the king of Videha, daughter-in-law of Daśaratha, and wife of Rama, come to such suffering in this lonely forest? 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, grief burns me as fire consumes its fuel, and sorrow, born of misfortune, torments my heart.” While his mother spoke thus in distress, Rama, the elder brother of Bharata, approached and touched the feet of Vasiṣṭha, the family priest. Like Indra approaching Brihaspati, Rama, 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 the people who understood dharma. Seated thus, Bharata, with hands joined in reverence, gazed upon Rāghava, who shone with splendor like a sage—just as Indra would look upon Prajāpati. Great curiosity arose among the noble assembly, wondering what words Bharata would speak after bowing respectfully to Rāghava. There, Rāghava, steadfast in truth; Lakṣmaṇa, of great prowess; and Bharata, righteous and 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, perceiving his brother’s devotion to his elders, Rāma began to question Bharata, 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, the son of Kaikeyī, with joined palms and great effort, spoke these words: “Our noble father, having performed a most difficult deed, has abandoned his life and gone to heaven, tormented by grief for his son. Urged by 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. Therefore, O bestower of honor, accept the kingdom in due order and in accordance with righteousness, and make your friends happy.