In the palace at Ayodhyā, the tension was palpable. According to the ancient customs of royal sages, it was only after entrusting the kingdom to sons—sons who would care for the people as their own children—that a king would retire to the forest. Yet, in this moment, there was concern that the kingdom might fall into confusion, given the presence of many princes. If Rāma, out of his sense of righteousness, did not wish to claim the throne for himself, Lakṣmaṇa stepped forward with unwavering resolve. Lakṣmaṇa vowed to Rāma, “Hero, I swear to you that I will not seek the glory reserved for warriors. I will safeguard your kingdom, as the shore protects the ocean. Let the auspicious rites of your consecration be performed; I will stand alone to restrain the fire of the other kings. My arms 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—exist to crush the enemy. I do not desire anything excessive from those considered my foes.” With fierce determination, Lakṣmaṇa declared, “With my sword, sharp and shining like lightning, I do not consider any enemy—even one armed with the thunderbolt—my equal. The earth will be covered with the heads, arms, hands, and thighs of elephants, horses, charioteers, and warriors, making it impassable, all crushed by my sword. Struck by its edge, my enemies will fall blazing to the ground like thunderclouds with lightning. With my fingers protected by leather guards and my bow and arrows in hand, who could consider himself a man while I stand among men? United foes will be struck down by my arrows, and even if alone, I will lay low multitudes, targeting the vital points of men, horses, and elephants.” He continued, “Today, the power of my weapons will be revealed; I will render the king powerless and establish your authority, lord. Now is the time for sandalwood paste, for the removal of armlets, for the relinquishing of riches, and for the protection of friends. My two arms are fit, Rāma, for performing deeds—especially for repelling those who 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.” Rāma, wiping away his tears and repeatedly consoling Lakṣmaṇa, spoke gently, enhancing the glory of the Raghava line. “Hear me, gentle one. I am resolved to follow my father’s command; this is the righteous path.” Listen now to the twenty-fourth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Seeing Rāma’s determination to obey his father, Kausalyā, her voice choked with tears, spoke words of righteousness. “He who has never known suffering, who is devoted to righteousness and speaks kindly to all beings—how will my son, born of Daśaratha, live by gleaning? He whose servants and attendants eat well-cooked food—how will this Rāma now eat roots and fruits in the forest? 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, is being exiled?” She lamented, “Fate is surely powerful in this world, directing all things; for you, Rāma, so pleasing to all, are now going to the forest. 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 here, my son, 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 when it departs, so too, my child, will I follow you wherever you go.” Hearing these words spoken by his mother, Rāma, the best of men, replied to her, who was overwhelmed with grief. “Deceived by Kaikeyī and abandoned by you when I have gone to the forest, the king surely will not survive. The abandonment of one’s husband is an act of sheer cruelty for a woman; 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 thus spoken, Rāma, foremost among the upholders of righteousness, again addressed his mother, who was deeply distressed. “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 filled with tears, spoke in great anguish. “O Rāma, I cannot bear to dwell among these co-wives; take me also, O Kakutstha, to the forest, like a wild doe. If your mind is made up to depart, out of regard for your father—” As she wept, Rāma, also weeping, spoke these words. “For a living woman, her husband is her deity and lord; today, for both you and me, the king is the ruling master. We are not without protector, for the wise king, lord of the people, is ours; and Bharata too is righteous, speaking kindly to all beings.” Rāma then counseled, “Always act with care for the welfare of the aged king; the woman who is devoted to vows and fasting is the most excellent.” Thus, in the midst of sorrow and steadfast resolve, Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Kausalyā spoke words of duty, devotion, and sacrifice, each upholding dharma in the face of great trial.