King Daśaratha, his heart heavy with sorrow, turned to his trusted charioteer Sumantra and said, “Sumantra, bring here all my wives who are present. I wish to see Rāghava, surrounded by them all.” Obediently, Sumantra made his way through the inner chambers, and addressed the royal women, “The noble king summons you; go there without delay.” Hearing Sumantra’s words, spoken on the king’s command, all the women hastened to the palace, eager to fulfill their lord’s wish. Among them, three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, who had taken vows, gently gathered around Queen Kausalya and proceeded together. As the king beheld the arrival of his wives, he turned again to Sumantra and instructed, “Sumantra, bring my son to me.” At the king’s word, Sumantra quickly fetched Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā, and led them into the presence of the lord of the earth. When Daśaratha saw his son approaching, palms joined in reverence, he rose swiftly from his seat, overwhelmed by grief and surrounded by the assembled women. The king, overcome with emotion, hurried towards Rāma, but as he reached him, the weight of his sorrow proved too much—he collapsed to the ground, senseless. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa rushed to their father’s side, distressed to see him so afflicted. Suddenly, a tumult broke out among the thousands of women in the palace; their cries of “Alas, Rāma!” mingled with the clamor of ornaments filled the air. With loving arms, they embraced both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, and together with Sītā, gently lifted the weeping king and placed him upon the couch. After a moment, as the king slowly regained consciousness, Rāma, with palms joined and eyes brimming with tears, spoke with great reverence, “I take leave of you, great king, lord of us all. As I depart for the Dandaka forest, may you see me safe. Please grant permission to Lakṣmaṇa, and let Sītā follow me to the forest. Though I have tried to persuade them with many true reasons, they do not wish to stay behind. Grant permission to all of us, O giver of honor, casting off your grief—Lakṣmaṇa, myself, and Sītā—as the Lord of creatures does for his children.” As Rāma awaited his father’s untroubled consent, Daśaratha, his voice laden with anguish, spoke of Rāma’s exile: “O Rāghava, deluded by Kaikeyī’s boon, I have been bound. You alone should be king in Ayodhyā today, restraining me from this folly.” Hearing these words, Rāma, ever righteous, bowed respectfully and replied with skill and humility, “You, O king, should rule the earth for a thousand years. I desire no kingdom; I will dwell in the forest. After spending fourteen years in exile, I will return and again clasp your feet, O lord of men, when my vow is fulfilled.” Weeping, distressed, bound by his promise of truth, and urged by Kaikeyī, the king spoke to his beloved son, “For your welfare, growth, and return, dear child, go without anxiety on a safe and unobstructed path. Indeed, O delight of the Raghus, it is not possible to turn back the resolve of one such as you, whose mind is set on truth and righteousness. But, my son, do not go tonight under any circumstances; let me spend at least this one day in your presence. What you are doing, beloved Rāghava, is truly difficult; for my sake, you have taken up the forest life in this way. But this does not please me, my son—by truth I swear, O Rāghava; I have been deceived by a woman as destructive as fire hidden in ashes. The deception that has befallen me, you wish to overcome, being urged by Kaikeyī, who is steadfast in her resolve but unrighteous in conduct. Yet, it is not astonishing, my son, that you, my eldest, wish to keep your father free from falsehood.” Having heard his father’s distressed words, Rāma spoke sorrowfully to his brother Lakṣmaṇa, “What virtues will I gain today, and who will grant them to me tomorrow? Therefore, I choose only to depart, renouncing all desires. This earth, with its provinces, people, wealth, and grain, I relinquish; let it be given to Bharata. My resolve to dwell in the forest will not waver today; the boon you granted to Kaikeyī in battle, O bestower of boons, must be fulfilled. Let it be given in full—be true to your word, O king; I will carry out your command exactly as spoken. I will dwell in the forest for fourteen years with the forest-dwellers; do not hesitate—let the earth be given to Bharata. I do not desire the kingdom, nor happiness, nor anything dear to myself, as much as I wish to carry out your command, O delight of the Raghus.” With gentle firmness, Rāma continued, “Let your sorrow depart, do not be overwhelmed with tears; the mighty ocean, lord of rivers, is never disturbed. I do not desire the kingdom, nor happiness, nor the earth, nor any of these pleasures, nor heaven, nor even life itself. You alone I desire in truth, O best of men, not falsehood; by your truth and virtue, I swear this before you. Nor is it possible for me, father, to remain even for a moment; bear this grief, for there will be no change in my resolve. O Rāghava, I have indeed been requested by Kaikeyī to go to the forest, and I replied, ‘I will go.’ I am now faithfully upholding that truth.” Thus, in the palace filled with grief and love, Rāma’s unwavering devotion to truth and his father’s word shone forth like a beacon, even as the hearts of all present were torn between duty and sorrow.