With deep reverence, Kausalyā embraced her son Rāma, gently smelling his head and holding him close. Her voice warm and loving, she blessed him, “Go, Rāma—may you attain your heart’s desire and travel safely and happily.” Her hopes poured forth as she continued, “May I see you, my child, return to Ayodhyā, healthy and fulfilled in all your aims, once again walking the royal paths. Freed from sorrow, my face shining with joy, I shall behold you returned from the forest, radiant like the full moon newly risen. I shall see you, Rāma, seated on your auspicious throne, returned from exile, having honored your father’s command. And when you come back, blessed and victorious, always fulfill the wishes of my daughter-in-law. Go forth, my son.” Kausalyā’s prayers rose higher: “May the hosts of gods led by Śiva, the great sages, all beings, and celestial serpents whom I have worshipped—may they, and all the directions, wish you well as you set out for the forest, O Rāghava.” Tears filled her eyes as she completed the blessings with all due rites. She circled Rāma in reverent circumambulation, embracing him again and again, her gaze lingering on him with longing and love. Having been thus honored and blessed, Rāma bowed repeatedly and pressed his mother’s feet. Radiant with the glory of her blessings, he then departed for Sītā’s dwelling. Thus concludes the twenty-sixth chapter in the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. After bowing to Kausalyā and taking leave, Rāma, steadfast in righteousness and duty, prepared to depart for the forest. As he walked along the royal road, thronged with people, the citizens’ hearts were stirred by the virtues that shone from him. Meanwhile, Sītā, devoted to her vows and the practice of austerity, was unaware of the sorrowful turn of events. Her heart remained fixed on the anticipation of Rāma’s consecration as heir-apparent. Having completed her sacred duties, grateful and joyful, the princess—well-versed in royal conduct—waited for the outcome. Rāma entered his splendidly adorned house, filled with delighted people, his face turned slightly downward in modesty. At that moment, Sītā rose, trembling, and beheld her husband, his heart weighed down by sorrow, his senses troubled by anxious thoughts. Seeing her, Rāma could not hide his grief, and his distress became evident. Observing Rāma’s pale face, his body sweating yet free from resentment, Sītā, herself tormented by sorrow, asked gently, “What is this, my lord? Today is the auspicious day of Bṛhaspati joined with Puṣya, as declared by learned Brahmins, O Rāghava—why are you so troubled?” She continued, “Your charming face, usually shaded by the white umbrella like 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 swan, as is customary. The eloquent bards and heralds, delighted, do not appear to praise you today, O bull among men, 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, 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 all 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 proceed at the head. Now that the consecration is prepared, why is this with you? Your face shows an unfamiliar color, and no joy is seen.” To her lament, the delight of the Raghus replied, “Sītā, my father is sending me to the forest. Born in a great family, knowing and following righteousness, listen, Jānakī, to how this has come to pass. 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 about to install me, she has claimed those boons, and that promise, bound by righteousness, is being fulfilled. For fourteen years, I must dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest by my father’s command, and Bharata is to be appointed heir-apparent.” Rāma’s voice was gentle but resolute as he continued, “So I have come to see you as I set out 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 been given to him by the king; he must be especially honored by you, Sītā, and so too the king. And I, upholding that promise to my teacher, will go to the forest today itself; be steadfast, O resolute one.” He tenderly instructed her, “When I have 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. My mother Kausalyā, aged and worn by sorrow, putting righteousness first, deserves your special honor. And you must always bow to my other mothers as well; with affection, devotion, and service, they are all as mothers to me.” Thus, Rāma prepared Sītā for the path ahead, his words filled with love, duty, and unwavering righteousness.