Lakṣmaṇa, his heart ablaze with fierce resolve, spoke to Rāma with the intensity of a mighty elephant gone mad—one that cannot be restrained even by the sharpest goad. “I will not yield to fate,” he declared. “I will pursue it and turn it back by my own strength. Not even the guardians of the worlds, nor all three worlds together, could prevent your consecration today, Rāma—let alone our father. Those who have plotted your exile to the forest, O king, will themselves be the ones to dwell there for fourteen years.” His voice rang with defiance. “Fate’s power is nothing before the might of one intoxicated with strength. My fierce effort will prevail, and those who stand against us will suffer. Only after a thousand years and after the noble sons have ruled should you go to the forest—not now. According to the customs of our ancient royal sages, forest dwelling is prescribed only after entrusting the kingdom to sons who care for the people as their own children. But if, out of concern for confusion among the princes, you, righteous Rāma, do not wish the kingship for yourself, then I vow to you, hero, I will not seek the world of heroes. I will protect your kingdom as the shore protects the ocean.” Lakṣmaṇa continued, “Go, perform your consecration with auspicious rites and fulfill your duty. I alone will restrain the fire of the other kings. These two arms of mine are not for ornament, nor is my bow for decoration. My headband is not for adornment, nor are my arrows for mere display. All these—my arms, bow, headband, and arrows—are for crushing the enemy, and I do not desire anything excessive from one who stands against me. With my sword, sharp and shining like a flash of lightning, I do not consider any enemy, even one armed with the thunderbolt, as equal to me. Struck by my sword, the earth will be covered with the heads, arms, hands, and thighs of elephants, horses, charioteers, and warriors, making it impassable. My enemies, struck down by my blade, will fall to the ground, blazing like thunderclouds with lightning.” He raised his bow. “With my fingers protected by leather guards, bow and arrows in hand, how could any man consider himself a man while I stand among them? With my arrows, I will strike down many who are united in purpose, and even if alone, I will lay low multitudes, aiming at the vital points of men, horses, and elephants. Today, the true power of my weapons will be seen. I will render the king powerless and establish your authority, my lord. Today is the time for sandalwood paste, for the removal of armlets, for the relinquishing of riches, and for the protection of friends. These two arms of mine, O Rāma, are fit for action—especially for repelling those who would obstruct your consecration. Tell me, who today shall be struck down by me—who, though not your friend, boasts of life, fame, and loyal followers—so that this earth may come under your sway? Command me as you wish, for I am your servant.” At this, Rāma, wiping away his tears and gently consoling Lakṣmaṇa, the glory of the Raghava line, spoke with calm determination: “Hear me, gentle one. I am resolved to follow my father’s command; this, indeed, is the righteous path.” Now, as the next chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, unfolds, Kausalyā, seeing Rāma so steadfast in his resolve to obey his father, spoke to him with a voice choked by tears, her words filled with righteousness and grief. “My son,” she wept, “who has never known suffering, who is devoted to righteousness and speaks kindly to all beings—how will you, born of Daśaratha, survive by gleaning in the forest? You, whose servants and attendants eat well-cooked food—how will you now eat roots and fruits in the wilderness? Who could believe this, and who would not be afraid to hear that the virtuous and beloved son of the king, a descendant of Kakutstha, is being exiled? Surely, fate is powerful in this world, directing all things; for you, Rāma, so pleasing to all, are now going to the forest.” She continued, her sorrow deepening, “Even the wind, which is like your own kin, brings me only the pain of lamentation, fanned by my weeping and tears, as if offering oblations to the fire of sorrow. The great smoke of anxious tears, born from my worry over your departure, will consume me, my son, and the exhaustion of sighs will only increase my suffering. Deprived of you, this boundless, intense fire of grief will burn me up, just as the sun scorches the undergrowth at the end of winter. Just as a cow follows her calf, so too, my child, will I follow you wherever you go.” Hearing these anguished words from his mother, Rāma, the best among men, replied to her, who was overwhelmed by grief. “Deceived by Kaikeyī and abandoned by you when I have gone to the forest, the king surely will not survive. For a woman, the abandonment of her husband is an act of sheer cruelty; such a thing must not be done by you, not even in thought, for it is to be condemned. As long as my father, the lord of the world and scion of Kakutstha, lives, let service to him be performed; for that is the eternal duty.” Thus addressed by Rāma, the auspicious Kausalyā, greatly pleased with her blameless son, replied, “So be it.” Having spoken thus, Rāma, foremost among the upholders of righteousness, again addressed words to his deeply distressed mother. “Both you and I must carry out the command of our father; for the king is husband, teacher, the highest, lord and master of all. But after spending these fifteen years in the great forest with utmost joy, I shall abide by your word.” Thus addressed, Kausalyā, loving her son dearly, her face streaming with tears, spoke again in great anguish, unable to contain the sorrow in her heart.