Lakṣmaṇa, filled with fierce determination, spoke passionately to Rāma. He insisted that even if their resolve and the will of others were shaped by fate, Rāma should disregard it, though such words did not bring him satisfaction. Lakṣmaṇa declared that only those who are weak and lack valor submit to destiny, while true heroes, full of self-respect, do not bow to fate. He argued that the one who overcomes fate through human effort does not despair, even when misfortune strikes. Lakṣmaṇa proclaimed that today, all would witness the contest between fate and human action; the distinction between destiny and personal effort would be revealed. Those who saw Rāma’s consecration for the kingdom thwarted by fate would now see destiny overcome by Lakṣmaṇa’s own resolve. Like a wild, mighty elephant unrestrained by the goad, he vowed to chase down fate and turn it back with his strength. He asserted that not even the guardians of the worlds, nor all three worlds combined, could prevent Rāma’s consecration that day—much less their father, King Daśaratha. Those who arranged Rāma’s exile to the forest, Lakṣmaṇa declared, would themselves dwell in the forest for fourteen years. Fate’s power, he insisted, is no match for one intoxicated with might; his fierce effort would prevail, bringing sorrow to their enemies. Lakṣmaṇa urged Rāma to rule for a thousand years, and only after the noble sons’ reign was complete should he consider going to the forest—not now. He reminded Rāma that, according to the tradition of ancient royal sages, forest dwelling is prescribed only after entrusting the kingdom to sons who care for the people as their own children. If Rāma hesitated to take the throne out of concern for the confusion among many princes, Lakṣmaṇa vowed that he himself would not seek the world of heroes; he would protect Rāma’s kingdom as the shore protects the ocean. He urged Rāma to proceed with the consecration and auspicious rites, promising to restrain the fire of other kings single-handedly. Lakṣmaṇa declared that his arms were not for ornament, nor his bow for decoration; his headband and arrows were not for show. All these—arms, bow, headband, and arrows—were meant to crush enemies, and he sought nothing excessive from those considered foes. With a sword sharp as lightning, Lakṣmaṇa did not consider any enemy, even one armed with the thunderbolt, as equal to him. He described how, when crushed by his sword, the earth would be strewn with the bodies of elephants, horses, charioteers, and warriors, making it impassable. His enemies would fall blazing to the ground like thunderclouds with lightning. With his fingers protected by leather guards and his bow and arrows in hand, he questioned how any man could consider himself a man while Lakṣmaṇa stood among them. He promised to strike down many united in purpose, and even if alone, he would lay low multitudes, targeting the vital points of men, horses, and elephants. That day, he declared, the power of his weapons would be shown: he would render the king powerless and establish Rāma’s authority. It was a day for sandalwood paste, for the removal of armlets, for relinquishing riches, and for protecting friends. Lakṣmaṇa’s arms, he insisted, were fit for action—especially for repelling those who would obstruct Rāma’s consecration. He asked Rāma to name those who, though not his friends, boasted of life, fame, and loyal followers, so that Lakṣmaṇa could strike them down and bring the earth under Rāma’s sway. He pledged himself as Rāma’s servant, awaiting his command. Seeing Lakṣmaṇa’s tears and his repeated efforts to console him, Rāma, enhancer of the Raghava line, gently spoke: “Hear me, gentle one, I am resolved to follow my father’s command; this, indeed, is the righteous path.” At this point, the story continues with the twenty-fourth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Seeing Rāma determined to obey his father’s command, Kausalyā, her voice choked with tears, spoke righteous words. She lamented that her son, who had never known suffering, who was devoted to righteousness and spoke kindly to all beings, would now have to live by gleaning. She wondered how Rāma, whose servants and attendants ate well-cooked food, would now eat only roots and fruits in the forest. Kausalyā expressed disbelief and fear at the thought that the virtuous and beloved son of the king, a descendant of Kakutstha, was being exiled. She concluded that fate must indeed be powerful in this world, for Rāma, so pleasing to all, was now going to the forest. The wind, which should have been like kin, brought her only the pain of lamentation, fanned by her weeping and tears, as if offering oblations to the fire of sorrow. She described how the great smoke of anxious tears, born from her worry over Rāma’s departure, would consume her, and the exhaustion of sighs would only increase her suffering. Deprived of Rāma, the boundless, intense fire of grief would burn her up, just as the sun scorches the undergrowth at the end of winter. Like a cow following her calf, she declared she would follow Rāma wherever he went. Hearing these words spoken by his mother, Rāma, the best of men, replied to her, who was overwhelmed with grief. He explained that, deceived by Kaikeyī and abandoned by Kausalyā when he had gone to the forest, the king would surely not survive. Abandoning one’s husband, he said, was an act of sheer cruelty for a woman; such a thing must not be done by her, not even in thought, for it was to be condemned. Rāma urged that as long as his father, the lord of the world and scion of Kakutstha, lived, service to him should be performed, for that is the eternal duty.