Though her heart was weighed down with sorrow, Kausalyā, Rama’s illustrious mother, spoke to her son as if she were filled with joy. Her words expressed only what custom required, not the pain she truly felt within. Bowing to him, she gently smelled his head and embraced him tenderly. “Go, Rama,” she said, “may you attain your heart’s desire and travel happily.” She continued, “May I see you, my child, returned to Ayodhyā, healthy and fulfilled in all your aims, once again walking along the royal roads. Freed from all sorrowful thoughts, my face shining with joy, I shall see you returned from the forest, like the full moon newly risen. I shall see you again, Rama, seated upon an auspicious throne, returned from the forest, having fulfilled your father’s command. When you return from the forest, blessed and victorious, always fulfill the wishes of my daughter-in-law. Now, my son, go forth.” With deep devotion, she invoked blessings: “The hosts of gods led by Śiva, the great sages, all beings, and celestial serpents whom I have worshipped—may they, and the guardians of the directions, wish you well as you set out for the forest, O Rāghava.” Her eyes brimming with tears, she completed the blessings according to sacred rites, then circumambulated Rama, embracing him again and again, unable to take her eyes off him. Rama, circumambulated by his mother, bowed repeatedly and pressed her feet in reverence. Radiant with her blessings, he then made his way toward Sītā’s dwelling. This marks the close of the twenty-fifth chapter and the beginning of the twenty-sixth in the Ayodhyā section of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Having bowed to Kausalyā, Rama, steadfast in righteousness and determined to depart for the forest, took leave of his mother and stood firm in his duty. As he made his way along the royal road, thronged with people, the noble prince shone with virtue, stirring the hearts of the citizens. Meanwhile, Sītā, devoted to her vows and austerities, remained unaware of these events. Her heart was fixed only on the impending ceremony of Rama’s consecration as heir-apparent. Having completed her divine duties, grateful and joyful, the princess, well-versed in royal conduct, awaited the outcome, her mind filled with hope. Then Rama entered his own splendidly adorned house, filled with delighted people. Yet, out of modesty, his gaze was cast slightly downward. At that moment, Sītā rose, trembling, and saw her husband, his face clouded with sorrow, his senses disturbed by anxious thoughts. Seeing her, Rama, the righteous one, could no longer contain the grief in his heart. His distress became visible. Sītā, observing his pale face and sweat, and seeing that he bore no anger, was herself overcome with sorrow. She asked gently, “What has happened, my lord?” She continued, “Today is the auspicious day of Brihaspati joined with Pushya, as declared by learned Brahmins, O Raghava. Why, then, are you troubled? Your charming face, usually shaded by the white umbrella with a hundred ribs, as bright as sea-foam, does not shine forth today. Nor is your lotus-eyed face fanned by the two chief fly-whisks, bright as the moon and the swan, as is customary. The eloquent bards and heralds, who delight in praising you, do not appear today, nor do the Sutas and Magadhas recite auspicious verses. The Brahmins, masters of the Vedas, do not anoint your head with honey and curds as prescribed for one being consecrated. All the citizens and chiefs of the guilds, adorned for festivity, do not wish to follow you, nor do the townspeople and countryfolk. Why does your foremost flower-adorned chariot, yoked with four swift horses adorned with gold, not go before you? Nor do I see your splendid elephant, honored for its auspicious marks, dark as a rain cloud or mountain, leading your procession, O hero. Nor do I see your beautiful, golden-embellished royal seat placed in front, as you customarily proceed at the head. Now that all is prepared for your consecration, why is this happening? Your face is unfamiliar to me, and I see no joy in you.” As Sītā lamented in this way, Rama, the delight of the Raghus, spoke to her: “Sītā, my father is sending me to the forest. Born in a great family, a knower and follower of righteousness, listen, Jānakī, to how this has come to me. My father, King Daśaratha, true to his word, once granted two great boons to Kaikeyī, my mother. Now, as my consecration was being prepared and the king was set to install me, she has claimed those boons, and my father, bound by righteousness, is fulfilling his promise. For fourteen years, I must dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest by my father’s command, and Bharata is to be appointed heir-apparent in my place. “So I have come to see you as I prepare to depart for the lonely forest. In Bharata’s presence, you must never speak of me. For men endowed with prosperity do not tolerate praise of others; therefore, my virtues must not be spoken of before Bharata. The everlasting heir-apparency has now been given to him by the king; you must especially honor him, Sītā, and also the king. “As for me, upholding my father’s promise, I will go to the forest today itself. Be steadfast, O resolute one. When I am gone to the forest, frequented by sages, you must devote yourself to vows and fasting, O blameless one. Rise early, perform worship of the gods as prescribed, and bow to Daśaratha, my father, lord of the people. And my mother Kausalyā, aged and worn by sorrow, who always puts righteousness first, deserves your special honor.” Thus, Rama, ever devoted to duty and righteousness, spoke to Sītā, preparing her for the path ahead as he set forth on his exile.