Kaikeyī, resolute in her intentions, declared, “All my stores of grain and treasures—let them follow Rāma as he dwells in the lonely forest. There, performing sacred rites at holy places, giving generous gifts, and meeting with sages, he will find happiness, even in exile. Meanwhile, mighty-armed Bharata will rule Ayodhyā; and in time, may all the illustrious Rāma’s desires be fulfilled once more.” Yet, as Kaikeyī spoke thus about the great Kakutstha, a wave of fear washed over her. Her face became parched, her voice faltered, and she turned to the king, distressed and frightened, her words barely escaping her lips. “Bharata will not desire a kingdom stripped of wealth, empty and devoid of any joy—like liquor whose spirit has vanished,” she insisted, her resolve mingled with anxiety. Having cast aside all shame, Kaikeyī uttered these harsh words, and King Daśaratha, his eyes wide and sorrowful, addressed her. “Why do you strike me so, as I bear this heavy yoke? Unworthy woman, why did you not restrain me before I began this deed?” Stung by his words, Kaikeyī’s anger only deepened. She replied with doubled vehemence, “In your own lineage, Sagara banished his eldest son, Asamañja. So too should this one depart.” Daśaratha, wounded by her accusation of shame, replied, and all who heard were filled with sorrow and embarrassment—except Kaikeyī, who remained unmoved. Then, Siddhārtha, an aged and pure-hearted minister, esteemed by the king, spoke up to Kaikeyī. “Asamañja, while playing on the roads, would seize children and hurl them into the waters of the Sarayū, delighting in this wickedness. Seeing this, the townspeople, angered, went to the king and said, ‘O protector of the realm, choose either Asamañja or us.’ “The king then asked, ‘Why this fear?’ And the citizens answered, ‘He throws our children, whose minds are unsteady, into the Sarayū and finds joy in it.’ Hearing their words, the king, to please his people, abandoned his own son, though he had committed no harm. He swiftly placed Asamañja, with his wife and attendants, upon a chariot and exiled him for life, commanding, ‘Let him live in banishment as long as he lives.’ Taking a spade and basket, Asamañja wandered through mountain fastnesses, roaming in every direction, as if he had committed a terrible crime.” Siddhārtha continued, “Thus did King Sagara, most righteous, act not out of wrath, but for the realm. What sin has Rāma committed, that he should be obstructed so? We see no fault in Rāghava; for him, descent into hell is as unlikely as a stain on the moon. But, O Queen, if you see any fault in Rāghava, speak truly today, and Rāma shall be exiled. For to abandon one who is blameless and devoted to righteousness would destroy even Indra’s radiance, so opposed is it to dharma. Enough, O Queen, with your efforts to ruin Rāma’s fortune; you must also guard yourself from public reproach, O auspicious one.” Hearing Siddhārtha’s wise counsel, the grief-stricken king, his voice weary, turned to Kaikeyī and said, “You do not wish to heed these words, which are for your own good, though they may seem harsh. You do not know what is beneficial for me or yourself. Having taken to a cruel path, your conduct has strayed from the way of the good. Today, I will follow Rāma, renouncing the kingdom, comfort, and wealth. You and Bharata, with all the king’s people, may enjoy the kingdom as you wish for a long time.” Thus concludes the thirty-sixth sarga. Now, the thirty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, begins. Hearing the chief minister’s words, Rāma addressed his father, Daśaratha, with humility and respect. “O King, since I have renounced all pleasures and will live in the forest on forest fare, what need is there for an escort? I have abandoned all attachments. For one who, after giving away an excellent elephant, sets his mind on the enclosure, what use is the bond of a rope to him, when the noble elephant is already gone? So, O best of the virtuous, what use have I for an army, O lord of the world? Let all return; only bring me garments of bark. And bring both the spade and basket, for I must dwell in the forest for fourteen years.” At that moment, Kaikeyī herself, shameless before the assembled people, brought the garments of bark to Rāghava and said, “Put these on.” That tiger among men, accepting the ascetic’s attire from Kaikeyī, set aside his fine cloth and donned the bark garments. Lakṣmaṇa, too, left his splendid clothes and took up the ascetic’s covering before his father. Then Sītā, clad in shimmering silk, gazed upon the bark garment with fear, like a frightened doe glimpsing a snare. The daughter of Janaka, blessed with auspicious marks, took the kusa-grass garment from Kaikeyī with downcast eyes, deeply troubled and ashamed. Her eyes filled with tears, knowing and devoted to righteousness, she spoke to her husband, who shone like a king among Gandharvas: “How do the sages dwelling in the forest wear such bark garments?”—thus, unskilled in such matters, Sītā, overwhelmed, fainted again and again.