As the citizens gathered, their voices trembled with distress as they spoke of the prince who, in his folly while playing, would throw their young children—whose minds were still unsteady—into the swift Sarayū river, taking delight in their fright. The king, hearing the grievances of his people, was compelled by their words to make a heart-wrenching decision: he abandoned his own son, though the boy had done no harm, solely to appease the citizens. Swiftly, the king placed his son upon a chariot, accompanied by his devoted wife and attendants, and exiled him for life, as his own father had commanded: “Let him live in banishment for as long as he lives.” With only a spade and a basket, the prince wandered through the wilderness, roaming the rugged mountain fastnesses in every direction, as though he were a wrongdoer fleeing from justice. Yet, it was said, even the righteous King Sagara had not abandoned his own son. What sin, then, had Rāma committed, that he should face such an obstacle and be sent away? The people saw no fault in Rāghava; to them, his descent into hell was as unthinkable as a stain marring the radiant moon. Turning to the queen, they implored her: “If you see any fault in Rāghava, speak truly today; only then should Rāma be exiled. For to abandon one who is blameless and devoted to righteousness would destroy even Indra’s own radiance, so opposed is it to dharma.” They pleaded further, “Enough, O Queen, with ruining Rāma’s fortune. You must also guard yourself from public reproach, O auspicious one.” Hearing these words from the chief minister Siddhārtha, King Daśaratha, his voice weary and broken by grief, addressed Kaikeyī: “You refuse to heed these words, though they are for your own good, even if they seem harsh. You do not know what is beneficial for you or for me. Having taken a cruel path, your conduct has strayed far from the way of the good.” With resolve, Daśaratha declared, “Today I will follow Rāma, renouncing the kingdom, its comforts, and all its wealth. You and Bharata, with all the king’s people, may enjoy the kingdom as you wish for as long as you desire.” Thus concludes the thirty-sixth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Let the thirty-seventh sarga be heard. Hearing the chief minister’s words, Rāma, with humility and deep respect, addressed his father, King Daśaratha: “O King, since I have renounced all pleasures and will live in the forest on forest fare, what need have I for an escort, when I have already abandoned all attachments? Just as one who, having given away a noble elephant, has no further use for the rope that once bound it, so too do I have no need for an army, O best of the virtuous. Permit all to return; let them bring me only garments of bark.” He continued, “Bring me the spade and basket as I go, for I must dwell in the forest for fourteen years.” At that moment, Kaikeyī herself, unashamed before the assembled crowd, brought the garments of bark to Rāghava and said, “Put these on.” That tiger among men, accepting the bark garments from Kaikeyī, set aside his fine cloth and donned the ascetic’s attire. Lakṣmaṇa, too, laid aside his splendid garments and took up the ascetic’s covering before his father. Then Sītā, resplendent in silk, gazed with fear upon the bark garment, much like a frightened doe confronted with a snare. The daughter of Janaka, blessed with auspicious marks, accepted the kusa-grass garment from Kaikeyī with downcast eyes, deeply troubled and ashamed. Her eyes brimming with tears, Sītā—wise and devoted to righteousness—spoke to her husband, that king among men: “How do the sages dwelling in the forest wear such bark garments?” Unskilled in such matters, Sītā fainted repeatedly as she tried to understand. Taking a piece of bark in her hand, she awkwardly placed it around her neck, standing embarrassed and unpracticed. Seeing her distress, Rāma, foremost among the righteous, quickly came to her side and himself tied the bark garment over Sītā’s silken attire. Witnessing Rāma’s gentle act, the women of the inner palace wept openly, tears streaming from their eyes. Dependent on his protection, they cried out to Rāma, radiant as ever: “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 behold her before you depart.” They pleaded, “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 words, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, gently tied the bark garment on Sītā, his equal in virtue. When she had donned the bark garment, the venerable royal priest, his eyes filled with tears, restrained Sītā and spoke sternly 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, who lacks the training for such a life, must not go to the forest, O Queen; she should remain here to perform her proper duties for Rāma.” He continued, “For all who are married, their wives are their very selves; considering her as his own self, Rāma will protect the earth. Now, as Vaidehī departs for the forest together with Rāma, we will follow them from here, if this city is to be abandoned. The guards, too, will go wherever Rāghava goes with his wife, along with all who live by him—the kingdom, the city, and its attendants. Bharata, together with Shatrughna, clad in bark, will dwell in the forest, following Kakutstha, their elder brother, as he lives there.” Thus, the sorrow and devotion of Ayodhyā’s people overflowed as they witnessed the exile of their beloved prince, his wife Sītā, and faithful Lakṣmaṇa, their hearts united in grief and love for Rāma, the blameless upholder of dharma.