Within the royal palace, the wives of the king raised their voices in heartbreaking lamentation, crying out as cows bereft of their calves, mourning their beloved husband. These dreadful sounds of anguish echoed through the halls, reaching the ears of the king himself, who was already tormented by grief for his son. Overwhelmed by sorrow, he collapsed upon his seat. Meanwhile, Rāma, deeply troubled and breathing heavily like a mighty elephant, entered his mother's inner chambers, accompanied by his devoted brother, Lakṣmaṇa. Maintaining self-control despite the turmoil within, Rāma passed through the palace. At the doorway, he saw an elderly man, greatly honored, seated with dignity, and many others standing nearby. Upon Rāma’s arrival, all present greeted him with reverence, hailing Rāghava, the foremost among victors, with acclamations of victory. Rāma entered the first chamber, and in the second, he saw Brahmins—learned in the Vedas, elderly, and honored by the king—gathered together. Bowing respectfully to these elders, he proceeded to the third chamber, where women, children, and elderly attendants stood, devotedly guarding the doorway. These joyful women, after blessing him, hurried inside to inform Queen Kausalyā that her beloved son had arrived. At that very moment, Queen Kausalyā, who had spent the night in meditation, was performing worship of Viṣṇu at dawn, her heart filled with wishes for her son’s welfare. Clad in silk garments, radiant with joy and ever devoted to her vows, she offered oblations to the sacred fire with proper mantras, having completed auspicious rites. Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious inner chamber and saw her there, offering oblations to the fire. He observed all the preparations for the divine rites: curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings. He noticed fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and full water pots arranged for the ceremony. There, before him, stood his mother, clad in white silk, emaciated from her vows but radiant in her beauty, offering libations to the gods. Rāghava approached his mother, embraced her lovingly, and kissed her on the head. Queen Kausalyā, steadfast and gentle, addressed her son with words of deep affection and kindness, moved by motherly love. “May you attain long life, fame, and righteousness befitting your noble lineage, just as the aged, virtuous royal sages of great soul have done before you. Behold your father, the king, O Rāghava, steadfast in his word; today itself, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” After being offered a seat and invited to dine, Rāghava, with joined hands, spoke quietly to his mother. Ever humble and respectful, he began to take his leave, preparing for his departure to the Daṇḍaka forest. He said, “O Queen, surely you do not know the great danger that has come. This is a cause for your sorrow, as well as for Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I for this seat? The time suited for the seat of the forest has now come upon me. For fourteen years I shall dwell in the lonely forest, living on roots, fruits, and bulbs, giving up meat like a sage. The great king grants the heirship to Bharata, but sends me, like an ascetic, into exile in the Daṇḍaka forest. For six and eight years I shall dwell in the lonely forest, sustaining myself on wild fruits and roots.” Hearing these words, Kausalyā, like a branch of a felled śāla tree cut by an axe, suddenly collapsed, as though a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, unaccustomed to sorrow, fallen like a plantain stalk, Rāma gently began to raise her, her senses lost in grief. He touched her dust-covered body with his hands, and as she, miserable and faint, slowly regained consciousness, she rose like a mare swept away by a rushing current. Now, accustomed to happiness but afflicted by grief, Kausalyā spoke to Rāghava, the tiger among men, as he sat close by, with Lakṣmaṇa listening. “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, for my sorrow, I, being childless, would not have seen such greater misery. For a barren woman, there is but one grief—the pain of being childless; there is no other, O son. I have never before seen any happiness or good fortune from my husband’s prowess; I had hoped to see it in my son, O Rāma. “I, though superior, will have to hear many unpleasant, heart-piercing words from my co-wives, who are inferior. What could be more painful for women than this endless grief and lamentation that has come upon me? Even when you were present, I was disregarded in this way; what then, dear one, when you are gone? Surely, death alone is certain for me. “I have always been deeply restrained, ever disfavored by my husband, and among Kaikeyi’s household, I am at best equal, or perhaps even inferior. For anyone who serves me or follows me, upon seeing Kaikeyi’s son, that person does not even speak to me. Because of her constant anger, how could I, so unfortunate, endure to see Kaikeyi’s harsh-speaking face, my son? “Seventeen years have passed since you were born, Rāghava, as I have longed for the end of my suffering. I can no longer bear this great and unending sorrow, the mistreatment from my co-wives, even though I have grown old, Rāghava.” Thus, in the palace shadowed by sorrow, mother and son shared their grief, the noble Rāma preparing to depart, and Kausalyā’s heart heavy with the pain of impending separation.