सुमित्रया कौसल्यायाः समाश्वासनम्

In the previous sarga Kausalyā had lamented long before Daśaratha. Seeing that best of women weeping so, Sumitrā, who stood firm in dharma, spoke to her righteous words. Noble lady, she said, your son is endowed with every virtue and is the best of men; what good is this lamenting, this pitiful weeping? Your mighty son has left the kingdom and gone, and in going he has made his great-souled father true to his word. Rāma stands firm in the dharma the good have always practised, the dharma that bears its fruit in the world to come; he is the best of men and never to be grieved for. Notice what Sumitrā does here: she does not deny Kausalyā's sorrow but changes its object, arguing that grief is out of place for one who stands above dharma itself. Her own position is remarkable, for she too has lost a son to the forest, yet she first sets about quieting another's grief. By calling her "firm in dharma" and her words "righteous", the poet signals that this comfort is no empty flattery but truth in keeping with dharma.

Blameless Lakṣmaṇa, she went on, has always served Rāma in the best of ways and is compassionate to every creature; for that great soul this is pure gain. Vaidehī, raised in comfort, knows perfectly well what hardship forest life means, and still she follows your righteous son. He is the lord who keeps the banner of his fame flying through the world, dharma itself in bodily form, devoted to the vow of truth; what has your son not attained? Each of the three who went to the forest is praised in turn: Lakṣmaṇa for his devotion to his brother, Sītā for following of her own free will, knowing what lay ahead, and Rāma for his fame. When Sumitrā calls her own son's departure a gain, she conquers a mother's love by dharma: his going is her loss too, yet she counts it as gain. The image of fame as a banner suggests renown moving in every direction like a flag in the wind, and what can be lacking to one with such renown?

Knowing plainly Rāma's purity and his greatness, she said, the sun will not presume to scorch his body with its rays. At every hour a kindly, pleasant breeze blowing from the woods, neither too cool nor too warm, will wait on Rāghava. At night, as he sleeps, the moon will embrace the blameless prince like a father and delight him, driving off the heat and touching him with its cool rays. And what has he to fear in the forest, that man of great splendour to whom Brahmā gave celestial weapons when he saw the lord of the dānavas, the son of Timidhvaja, slain in battle? Here the poet makes nature itself Rāma's household; since all creatures are friendly to him, even the wilderness becomes a home. Four witnesses are brought forward: sun, wind, moon and the weapons given by Brahmā. The first three take away the hardships of the forest, the fourth its dangers. The allusion recalls Rāma's earlier victory, the killing of Subāhu at Viśvāmitra's sacrifice after the slaying of Tāṭakā, so that Kausalyā's memory of her son's past triumph rises again.

That hero, tiger among men, she said, relying on the strength of his own arms, will live in the forest unafraid, as if he were at home. Enemies who come within the path of his arrows are destroyed; how should the earth not stay under his rule? By his majesty, his valour and his auspicious strength he will return from the forest and soon regain his own kingdom. This is the second stage of her comfort: first Sumitrā had shown Rāma safe through dharma, now through strength. "As if at home" removes the terror of the forest, and "the path of his arrows" implies that a man who destroys his enemies as soon as they come within bowshot cannot have his kingdom taken by others. And her question about the earth abiding under his rule means that his recovery of the throne is not merely possible but, by dharma, certain.

Then Sumitrā's words turned to praise. He is a sun even to the sun, a fire to fire, a lord to the lord; the foremost splendour of splendour, the fame of fame, the patience of patience; the god of the gods and the best of all beings. What faults, lady, can there be in him, in the forest or in the city? Then came her firm assurance: that bull among men would soon be consecrated together with three companions, the earth, Vaidehī and royal fortune. With "a sun to the sun" and the rest the poet hints at Rāma as the supreme being. In counting "these three" she sets earth, Sītā and fortune side by side: kingdom, home and prosperity will all return at once. "The patience of patience" deserves special thought: he who can bear everything is the very ground of patience, and so his acceptance of exile is not weakness but the highest strength.

At the sight of him going out, she said, all the people of Ayodhyā, struck by the force of their grief, shed tears of sorrow. He went dressed in kuśa grass and bark, a hero never conquered, and Lakṣmī, the goddess of fortune, followed him in the form of Sītā; what can be beyond such a man? Before him walks Lakṣmaṇa, first among bowmen, himself carrying arrows, sword and missiles; what can be beyond such a man? By repeating that question twice Sumitrā fixes certainty in Kausalyā's mind. The comparison is worth noticing: it is not Lakṣmī who is likened to Sītā but Sītā who is likened to Lakṣmī, so that Sītā is suggested to be fortune itself in person. The contrast of bark clothing and unconquered hero is also fine: even in bark he cannot be defeated, for outward dress is no measure of strength.

You will see him come home again, his forest years behind him, she said; put away grief and confusion, lady, I am telling you the truth. Blameless and auspicious one, you will see your son again bowing his head to your feet, like the moon newly risen. When you see him enter once more, consecrated and in the fullness of royal fortune, tears of joy will soon flow from your eyes. Let there be no grief or sorrow for you, lady; nothing inauspicious can be seen in Rāma, and soon you will see your son with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. The image of the risen moon suggests that exile is only a setting, not an end, and the rising is sure to come. Sumitrā speaks "I am telling you the truth" almost as an oath, so that her comfort becomes not mere soothing words but a firm promise. And the vision of him consecrated in splendour hints that in the end tears of joy will take the place of tears of grief.

Since it is you, faultless one, she said, who must comfort all these people, why are you so distressed at heart now? You are not one to grieve, lady, you whose son is Rāghava; no one in the world keeps to the path of the good better than Rāma. When you see your son saluting you with his friends around him, you will soon shed tears of joy like a bank of rain clouds. Here Sumitrā reminds the king's chief queen of her duty: the whole inner palace and the city stand firm by her courage, and her distress becomes everyone's distress. The image of the rain clouds fits as well: in the rainy season the clouds pour water that makes the crops grow, and so tears of joy do not burn like tears of grief but refresh everything they fall on.

Your son, the giver of boons, she said, will soon come back to Ayodhyā and press your feet with his soft, strong hands. As that brave son greets you and bows with his friends about him, you will sprinkle him with tears of joy as a line of clouds sprinkles a mountain. So the lady Sumitrā, lovely and blameless and skilled in gracious speech, consoled Rāma's mother with many kinds of words, and having said this, she fell silent. When Rāma's mother, wife of the lord of men, heard these words of Lakṣmaṇa's mother, the grief in her body vanished at once like a thin autumn cloud. So the sarga ends in calm, and in the next the story returns to Rāma on his road. The image of the autumn cloud is subtle: in autumn a cloud is seen, but it holds little water and soon melts away, and in the same way grief touched by the right words passes in a moment. In this sarga, by showing the women comforting one another, the poet shows courage restored in the inner palace of Ayodhyā.