Lakṣmaṇa, filled with determination and fiery resolve, spoke to Rāma at a moment of great crisis. He declared that those who possess the strength to overcome fate through human effort do not yield to despair, even when destiny brings misfortune. Today, he said, all would witness the contest between fate and human action—the distinction between destiny and the power of one's own will would be revealed for all to see. He promised that, through his own effort, he would overturn the fate that had thwarted Rāma's consecration as king. Like a mighty elephant gone mad, unstoppable even by the goad, Lakṣmaṇa vowed to chase down fate and turn it back with his own strength. Not even the guardians of the worlds, nor all three worlds together, could prevent Rāma's consecration that day—much less their own father, King Daśaratha. Those who had arranged for Rāma's exile to the forest, Lakṣmaṇa declared, would themselves be sent to dwell in the forest for fourteen years. He was confident that fate's power was no match for the strength of one intoxicated with might; his fierce effort would prevail, bringing suffering to the enemy. Only after a thousand years had passed and the rule of noble sons was complete should Rāma go to the forest—never now, he insisted. According to the custom of ancient royal sages, Lakṣmaṇa explained, dwelling in the forest was prescribed only after entrusting the people to sons who would care for them as their own children. Yet, if Rāma, out of concern for the confusion of the kingdom with many princes, did not wish the kingship for himself, Lakṣmaṇa made a solemn vow: he would not seek the world of heroes, but would protect Rāma's kingdom as the shore protects the ocean. He urged Rāma to perform his consecration with auspicious rites and to be engaged in his royal duties, promising to restrain the fire of the other kings single-handedly. Lakṣmaṇa declared that his two arms were not for ornament, nor was his bow for decoration; his headband was not for adornment, nor were his arrows for mere display. All these were meant for crushing the enemy, and he desired nothing excessive from those considered his foes. With a sword of sharp edge, shining like lightning, Lakṣmaṇa felt no enemy—armed even with the thunderbolt—was his equal. Crushed by the blows of his sword, the earth would be covered with the heads, arms, hands, and thighs of elephants, horses, charioteers, and warriors, making it impassable. Struck by the edge of his sword, 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, Lakṣmaṇa wondered how any man could consider himself a man while he stood among them. He vowed to strike down many who were united in purpose, and even if alone, he would lay low multitudes, targeting the vital points of men, horses, and elephants. That day, the power of his weapons would be truly displayed; he would render the king powerless and establish Rāma’s authority. Lakṣmaṇa proclaimed that the time had come for sandalwood paste, for the removal of armlets, for the relinquishing of riches, and for the protection of friends. His two arms, he asserted, were fit for performing deeds—especially for repelling those who obstructed Rāma’s consecration. He asked Rāma to name those who, though not his friends, boasted of life, fame, and loyal followers, so that the earth might come under Rāma’s sway; Lakṣmaṇa was ready to obey, for he was Rāma’s servant. Rāma, wiping away his tears and repeatedly consoling Lakṣmaṇa, the enhancer of the Raghava line, spoke gently: “Hear me, gentle one. I am resolved to follow my father’s command; this, indeed, is the righteous path.” Now, listen to the twenty-fourth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Seeing Rāma’s determination to obey his father’s command, Kausalyā—her voice choked with tears—spoke these righteous words. She lamented: how would her son, who had never known suffering, who was devoted to righteousness and spoke kindly to all beings, live by gleaning in the forest? He, whose servants and attendants ate well-cooked food—how would Rāma now eat roots and fruits in the wild? Who could believe this upon hearing it, and who would not be afraid—that the virtuous and beloved son of the king, a descendant of Kakutstha, was being exiled? Surely, fate is powerful in this world, directing all things; for even Rāma, so pleasing to all, was now going to the forest. The wind, which was like her own kin, brought her only the pain of lamentation, fanned by her weeping and tears, as if offering oblations to the fire of sorrow. 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 her son, this boundless, intense fire of grief would burn her up, just as the sun scorched the undergrowth at the end of winter. Just as a cow follows her calf when it departs, so too, she vowed, would she 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 surely would not survive. The abandonment of one’s husband, he said, was an act of sheer cruelty for a woman; such a thing must not be done, not even in thought, for it is to be condemned. As long as his father, the lord of the world and scion of Kakutstha, lived, service to him must be performed; for that was the eternal duty. Thus addressed by Rāma, the auspicious Kausalyā, greatly pleased with her blameless son, replied, “So be it.” Having thus spoken, Rāma, foremost among the upholders of righteousness, again addressed words to his mother, who was deeply distressed.