When King Daśaratha, broken by grief, was rebuked with the harsh words “Shame on you!” he replied in sorrow, and all the people around him felt a deep sense of shame—except Kaikeyī, who remained unmoved and failed to understand the weight of her actions. At that moment, an aged minister named Siddhārtha, pure of heart and greatly respected by the king, rose to address Kaikeyī. Seeking to awaken her conscience, Siddhārtha recounted a tale: “Once, Asamañja, while playing on the roads, would seize innocent children and, with wicked delight, throw them into the waters of the Sarayū. Witnessing this cruelty, the townspeople, angered and fearful, confronted the king. ‘O protector of the realm,’ they demanded, ‘choose between Asamañja and us.’ The king, troubled, asked them the cause of their fear, and the citizens explained, ‘While playing, he throws our unsteady children into the Sarayū, finding pleasure in this folly.’ “Hearing their words, the king, though his son had done them no personal harm, abandoned Asamañja to satisfy the people. Swiftly, he placed his son, along with his wife and attendants, upon a chariot and exiled him for life, decreeing, ‘Let him live in banishment as long as he lives.’ With only a spade and basket, Asamañja wandered through mountain wildernesses, roaming in all directions as though he had committed a great sin. “But King Sagara, most righteous, did not abandon his son for no cause. What sin has Rāma committed, then, that he is so harshly treated? We see no fault in Rāghava; for him, a descent into hell is as unlikely as a blemish on the moon. Yet, O Queen, if you perceive any fault in Rāghava, speak it truthfully today—then let Rāma be exiled. For to abandon one who is blameless and devoted to righteousness is to destroy even Indra’s radiance, for it stands against dharma. Enough, O Queen, with ruining Rāma’s fortune; you must also guard yourself from public reproach, O auspicious one.” Hearing Siddhārtha’s words, King Daśaratha, his voice weary and heavy with sorrow, addressed Kaikeyī: “You do not wish to heed these words, meant for your own good, though they may sound harsh. You do not know what is beneficial for me or for yourself. You have chosen a cruel path, straying from the conduct of the virtuous. Today, I will follow Rāma—renouncing the kingdom, its comforts, and its wealth. You and Bharata, with all the people, may enjoy the kingdom as you desire for as long as you wish.” Thus concludes the thirty-sixth sarga. Now, let the thirty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, be heard. Upon hearing the chief minister’s words, Rāma turned to Daśaratha and spoke with gentle 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, when I have abandoned all attachments? For one who, after giving away a noble 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 elephant? So, O best of the virtuous, what use have I for an army, O lord of the world? Let all return; let them bring me only garments of bark. And bring both the spade and basket, for I must dwell in the forest for fourteen years.” Then, Kaikeyī herself, unashamed before the assembled crowd, brought the bark garments to Rāghava and said, “Put these on.” That tiger among men, Rāma, accepted the bark garments from Kaikeyī, set aside his fine cloth, and donned the simple ascetic’s attire. Lakṣmaṇa too, without hesitation, laid aside his splendid garments and took up the ascetic’s covering before his father. Sītā, still clad in silk, gazed upon the bark garment with fear, like a frightened doe seeing a snare. The daughter of Janaka, graced with auspicious marks, accepted the kusa-grass garment from Kaikeyī with downcast eyes, deeply troubled and ashamed. Tears welled in her eyes as she, wise and devoted to righteousness, spoke to her husband, who shone like a king among Gandharvas: “How do the sages in the forest wear such bark garments?” Unskilled in such matters, Sītā fainted repeatedly. Taking a piece of bark in her hand, she tried to drape it around her neck, standing there unpracticed and embarrassed. Seeing her struggle, Rāma, foremost among the righteous, quickly came and himself tied the bark garment over Sītā’s silk attire. Witnessing this, the women of the inner apartments wept, tears streaming from their eyes. They called out to Rāma, radiant as ever, “Child, this noble lady is not meant for such a life in the forest. By your father’s command you go to the lonely forest; let us gaze upon her once more, O Lord. Go to the forest, dear child, with Lakṣmaṇa as your companion; this blessed lady is not fit to dwell in the forest like an ascetic. Grant us this request, son: let Sītā, the radiant one, remain here; you, ever devoted to righteousness, do not wish to stay now yourself.” Hearing their pleas, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, gently tied the bark garment on Sītā, who was his equal in virtue. When she had donned the bark garment, the venerable royal priest, his eyes filled with tears, tried to restrain Sītā and spoke to Kaikeyī: “You have gone too far, evil-minded Kaikeyī, disgrace of your lineage; having deceived the king, you do not abide by what is right.” Thus, amidst sorrow and protest, the royal household witnessed Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa prepare for exile, their virtue shining all the brighter against the darkness of injustice.