As the arrangements for Rāma’s departure unfolded, Kaikeyī spoke with unwavering resolve, declaring that Rāma would dwell happily in the forest—performing sacred rites, offering generous gifts, and seeking the company of revered sages. In the meantime, she insisted, the mighty-armed Bharata would rule Ayodhyā, and, in time, all of Rāma’s desires would be fulfilled once more. But as Kaikeyī spoke of the scion of the Kakutstha line, a wave of fear washed over her. Her face lost its color and her voice faltered, her words caught in her throat. Distressed and anxious, her features parched with worry, Kaikeyī turned to King Daśaratha and addressed him directly. She warned that Bharata would not wish for a kingdom stripped of its wealth, empty and devoid of any joy—like liquor drained of its spirit. Casting aside all restraint, Kaikeyī’s words were harsh and unyielding, and King Daśaratha, gazing at her with eyes wide as lotus petals, replied in anguish. “Why do you strike me as I bear this heavy burden? Why did you not stop me before I began this grievous task, unworthy woman?” Incensed by his reproach, Kaikeyī’s anger only deepened. She retorted that even in his own illustrious line, King Sagara had banished his eldest son, Asamañja—so too, she insisted, should Rāma be sent away. Hearing her words, the king, stung by shame, replied, “Shame on you!” The people of the court felt the sting of disgrace as well, though Kaikeyī remained unmoved and failed to grasp its weight. At this, an aged and venerable minister named Siddhārtha, pure of heart and greatly esteemed by the king, stepped forward and spoke to Kaikeyī. He recounted the story of Asamañja: while playing in the streets, Asamañja would seize the children of the townsfolk and, in a cruel delight, throw them into the waters of the Sarayū. The people, angered and fearful, approached King Sagara: “O increaser of the realm, choose—either Asamañja or us!” The king asked them the cause of their fear, and the citizens explained that Asamañja, in his folly, would toss their unsteady children into the river for his own amusement. Hearing this, King Sagara, though his son had done no harm to him personally, chose to exile Asamañja to satisfy the people. He swiftly had his son, along with his wife and attendants, placed upon a chariot and sent away for life, commanding him to live in banishment. Asamañja, with only a spade and basket, wandered the wilds, roaming the mountains like one burdened by sin. Siddhārtha concluded, “Thus did King Sagara, most righteous, not abandon his duty. But what sin has Rāma committed, that he should be obstructed in this way? We see no fault in Rāghava; for him, descent into hell is as unlikely as a stain upon the moon. But, O Queen, if you perceive any fault in Rāghava, speak truly today—then let Rāma be exiled. For abandoning a blameless soul devoted to dharma would destroy even Indra’s radiance, being contrary to righteousness. Enough, O Queen, with your efforts to ruin Rāma’s fortune; guard yourself, too, against public reproach.” Hearing Siddhārtha’s words, the king, his voice weary and heavy with grief, spoke to Kaikeyī again. “You do not wish to heed these words, though they are for your own good. You do not know what benefits me or yourself. Having chosen a cruel path, your conduct has strayed from the ways of the virtuous. Today, I will follow Rāma, renouncing the kingdom, comfort, and wealth. You and Bharata, with all the people, may enjoy the kingdom as you wish for as long as you desire.” Thus ends the thirty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As the next chapter begins, Rāma, hearing the chief minister’s words, addressed his father with deep humility and respect. “O King, since I have renounced all pleasures and will live in the forest, sustained only by what the forest provides, what need have I of an escort? I have already abandoned all attachments. Just as one who has given away a noble elephant has no use for the enclosure or the rope, so too do I have no need for an army. Permit all the retinue to return; let them bring me only garments of bark. And bring also a spade and basket, for I must dwell in the forest for fourteen years.” Then, before the assembled court, Kaikeyī herself, unashamed, brought forth the garments of bark for Rāghava and said, “Put these on.” The tiger among men, Rāma, accepted the bark garments from Kaikeyī, set aside his fine clothing, and donned the ascetic’s attire. Lakshmana, too, in the presence of his father, laid aside his splendid garments and took up the dress of a hermit. Sītā, adorned in silk, looked upon the bark garments with fear, like a startled doe caught in a snare. The auspicious daughter of Janaka, her eyes cast down in sorrow and embarrassment, took the kusa-grass garment from Kaikeyī. Tears welled in her eyes as she, devoted to righteousness and knowing the ways of dharma, turned to her husband—noble as a king among Gandharvas—and spoke, her heart troubled. “How do the sages in the forest wear such bark garments?” she asked, unaccustomed to such attire, and fainted repeatedly from distress. Taking a piece of bark in her hand, she tried to drape it around her neck, standing there awkward and ashamed, the noble daughter of Janaka, unpracticed in the ways of ascetics.