Then, in the royal assembly, an aged minister named Siddhārtha—pure of heart and greatly esteemed by King Daśaratha—rose and addressed Kaikeyī with measured words. He recalled the tale of Asamañja, who, in his youth, took perverse pleasure in seizing children as he played on the roads, casting them into the waters of the Sarayū for his own amusement. The townsfolk, angered by these cruel acts, confronted the king, demanding, “O protector of the realm, choose between Asamañja and us!” King Sagara, troubled, asked them, “What is the cause of your fear?” The citizens answered, “Your son, in his folly, throws our unsteady children into the river while playing, and delights in this misdeed.” Hearing their words, the king, though his son had committed no harm to him personally, chose to abandon Asamañja to satisfy his people. Swiftly, he placed Asamañja, along with his wife and attendants, upon a chariot and exiled him for life, commanding that he dwell in banishment for as long as he lived. With only a spade and basket, Asamañja wandered through the mountains, roaming as if burdened by guilt. Yet, Siddhārtha emphasized, King Sagara, most righteous, did not abandon his son without cause. What sin, then, has Rāma committed, that he should be so obstructed? “We see no fault in Rāghava,” Siddhārtha declared, “for him to fall into disgrace is as unlikely as a stain upon the moon. But, O Queen, if you perceive any fault in Rāghava, speak truly now, and let him be exiled. For to abandon one who is blameless and devoted to righteousness is to act against dharma—it would diminish even Indra’s radiance. Enough, O Queen, with bringing ruin upon Rāma; you must also guard yourself against public reproach.” Hearing these words, the king, his voice weary and heavy with grief, spoke to Kaikeyī: “You do not heed these words, though they are for your own good, even if they sound harsh. You know not what is truly beneficial for yourself or for me. Having chosen a cruel path, you have turned away from the way of the good. Today, I will follow Rāma—renouncing kingdom, comfort, and wealth. You and Bharata, with all the people, may enjoy the kingdom as you wish.” Thus concludes the thirty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Now, let the thirty-seventh sarga be heard. Hearing the words of the chief minister, Rāma then addressed his father, King Daśaratha, with humility and respect. “O King, since I have renounced all pleasures and will live in the forest, subsisting on what the forest yields, what need have I for an escort? When I have already abandoned all attachments, what use is there for a retinue? For one who has given away a noble elephant, what use is there for a rope to bind it? So, O best of the virtuous, what need have I for an army? Let all return; only bring me garments of bark, and the spade and basket, for I must dwell in the forest for fourteen years.” Then, shameless before the assembly, Kaikeyī herself brought the garments of bark 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 ascetic’s attire. Lakṣmaṇa, too, relinquished his splendid garments and took up the ascetic’s covering before his father. Sītā, radiant in her silk, looked upon the bark garment with fear, like a doe startled by a snare. The daughter of Janaka, graced with auspicious marks, took the kusa-grass garment from Kaikeyī with downcast eyes, deeply troubled and ashamed. Tears filled her eyes as she spoke, knowing and devoted to righteousness, to her husband, who was like a king among Gandharvas. “How do the sages in the forest wear such bark garments?” she wondered, unpracticed in such matters, and fainted repeatedly. Taking a piece of bark in her hand, she placed it around her neck and stood there, unaccustomed and embarrassed. Seeing her thus, Rāma, foremost among the righteous, quickly came to her and himself tied the bark garment over Sītā’s silken attire. Witnessing this, the women of the inner apartments shed tears, for Rāma’s splendor was undiminished by adversity. They pleaded with him, “Child, this noble lady is not meant for such a forest dwelling. By your father’s command you go to the lonely forest; let us at least have the solace of seeing her remain. Go, dear child, with Lakṣmaṇa as your companion; this blessed lady is not fit to dwell in the forest as an ascetic. Grant us this request, son: let Sītā, the radiant one, remain here. You, ever devoted to righteousness, need not stay yourself.” Hearing their words, Rāma, ever dutiful, tied the bark garment on Sītā, who was his equal in virtue. When she had taken the bark garment, the venerable royal priest, tears in his eyes, restrained Sītā and spoke sharply 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. Sītā, lacking in proper conduct for such a life, must not go to the forest, O Queen; she will fulfill her duties to Rāma here.” Thus, the assembly was filled with sorrow and reproach, as Sītā, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa prepared for their exile, bound by duty, love, and the unyielding demands of fate.