Bharata, it was said, would never desire a kingdom bereft of wealth, joyless and empty—like liquor drained of its spirit. As Kaikeyī, casting aside all shame, uttered these harsh words, King Daśaratha, whose sorrow weighed heavily upon him, addressed her, her eyes wide as lotus petals. He questioned her bitterly, “Why do you strike me as I bear this yoke, setting me to such a heavy task? Unworthy woman, why did you not restrain me before this deed began?” His anger poured forth, but Kaikeyī, now doubly enraged, replied, drawing upon the history of their lineage. “In your own line, Sagara banished his eldest son, Asamañja; so too should this one depart.” Daśaratha, stung by her words and the shame she brought, replied with sorrow, while all those present felt the weight of disgrace—even as Kaikeyī herself remained blind to it. Then Siddhārtha, an aged minister, pure and highly esteemed by the king, stepped forward and spoke to Kaikeyī. He recounted the tale of Asamañja: “While playing on the roads, he would seize children and, finding pleasure in wickedness, throw them into the waters of the Sarayū. The townspeople, angered, confronted King Sagara: ‘Choose either Asamañja or us, O increaser of the realm.’ The king asked, ‘For what reason is this fear?’ The citizens replied, ‘He throws our children, whose minds are still unsteady, into the Sarayū out of folly, and takes delight in it.’” Siddhārtha explained that, hearing the people’s words, King Sagara abandoned his own son, though he had done no harm, to please them. Asamañja was swiftly placed, with his wife and attendants, upon a chariot and exiled for life, as his father commanded: “Let him live in banishment as long as he lives.” Taking a spade and basket, Asamañja wandered through the mountain fastnesses, roaming all directions, as if he had committed a wicked deed. Siddhārtha concluded, “Thus did King Sagara, most righteous, not abandon him; what sin did Rāma commit, that he is thus obstructed? 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 it truly today; then Rāma shall be exiled. For to abandon one who is blameless and devoted to the righteous path would destroy even Indra’s radiance, being opposed to dharma. Enough, O Queen, with Rāma’s fortune being ruined by you; you must also guard yourself from public reproach, O auspicious one.” Hearing Siddhārtha’s words, the king, his voice weary and overcome by grief, spoke to Kaikeyī: “You do not wish to heed these words, which are for your own good, though they appear 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.” Let the thirty-seventh sarga be heard in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, sarga thirty-seven. Hearing the words of the chief minister, Rāma then addressed Daśaratha with humility and respect. “O King, since I have renounced pleasures and will live in the forest on forest fare, what need is there for an escort, when 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 he has already let go of the noble elephant? So, O best of the virtuous, what use have I for an army, O lord of the world? I permit all to return; let them bring me only garments of bark. And bring both the spade and basket as I go, for I must dwell in the forest for fourteen years.” Then Kaikeyī herself, shameless before the crowd, brought the garments of bark to Rāghava and said, “Put these on.” That tiger among men, Rāma, accepted the garments of bark from Kaikeyī, set aside his fine cloth, and donned the ascetic’s attire. Lakshmana, too, left aside his splendid garments and took up the ascetic’s covering before his father. Sita, clad in silk, gazed upon the bark garment with fear, like a frightened doe seeing a snare. The daughter of Janaka, possessing 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 was like a king among Gandharvas: “How do the sages dwelling in the forest wear such bark garments?”—thus, unskilled in such matters, Sita repeatedly fainted. Taking one piece of bark in her hand, she placed it around her neck and stood there, unpracticed and embarrassed, the daughter of Janaka. Then Rāma, foremost among the righteous, quickly came to her and himself tied the bark garment over Sita’s silk attire. Seeing Rāma tie the excellent bark garment on Sita, the women of the inner apartments shed tears from their eyes. Completely dependent, they said to Rāma, blazing with splendor, “Child, this noble lady is not meant for such a forest dwelling. By the command of your father you go to the lonely forest; let our seeing her be fulfilled, O Lord.” Thus, in the palace of Ayodhyā, sorrow and dignity mingled as Rāma, Sita, and Lakshmana prepared for their exile, embodying righteousness and sacrifice in the face of adversity.