In the royal court of Ayodhyā, voices rose in anguish as the people witnessed the unfolding tragedy. They spoke of Rāma’s deep love for Sītā, saying, “For all who are married, their wives are their very selves; considering her as his own self, Rāma will surely protect the earth.” As Sītā, the noble Vaidehī, prepared to depart for the forest with Rāma, the citizens declared their resolve: “If this city is to be abandoned, we too shall follow them from here.” The palace guards echoed this sentiment, proclaiming that wherever Rāghava went with his wife, they would accompany him, along with all who dwelt by his side—the kingdom, the city, and every attendant. Even Bharata and Shatrughna, they said, would don garments of bark and dwell in the forest with their elder brother, faithfully following Kakutstha as he lived in exile. They foresaw that, with the land emptied of its people and only trees remaining, the one left behind—Kaikeyī—would rule alone, standing against the welfare of the people. “For that will not be a kingdom where Rāma is not king; wherever Rāma dwells, even the forest, that will become the true kingdom.” They affirmed that Bharata would never desire to rule a land not granted by his father, nor would he wish to live with Kaikeyī as her son, if he was truly born of the king. “Even if you soar from earth to sky, Bharata, who knows the conduct of his ancestors, will not act otherwise.” With sorrow, they told Kaikeyī, “Because of your greed for your son, you have wronged your own child. In this world, there is none who is not devoted to Rāma. Today, Kaikeyī, you will see even the beasts, wild animals, birds, and trees turn toward Rāma as he departs.” Then, in the presence of all, they urged the queen, “Give the finest ornaments to your daughter-in-law and remove the bark garment. Vasiṣṭha, the revered sage, has forbidden that she should wear such attire. It is only Rāma who was to dwell in the forest, as you, daughter of the king of Kekaya, have chosen. Yet Sītā, always adorned, will live in the forest with Rāghava.” “Let the princess go, well attended by the finest vehicles and servants, with all kinds of garments and arrangements. She is not bound by your grant of the boon.” As these words filled the air, the thirty-eighth chapter began. Sītā, though protected, seemed as if she were unprotected as she put on the bark garment. The people cried out in pain, “Shame on you, Daśaratha!” The king, hearing their outcry, was deeply distressed; he lost faith in life, virtue, and his own honor. The Ikṣvāku king sighed heavily and turned to his wife, Kaikeyī. “Sītā should not go wearing a garment of kuśa grass,” he said. “She is delicate, young, and always accustomed to comfort. My teacher has said truly—she is not fit for the forest. She harms no one, this ascetic daughter of the best king. Standing among the people, wearing bark, she seems senseless, like a wandering mendicant.” He pleaded, “Let Janaka’s daughter cast off these garments of bark. I have never before made such a vow. Let the princess go to the forest as she wishes, taking all her ornaments and treasures. By me, who am unworthy of life, a cruel vow has been made and strictly kept. But you, out of childishness, have accepted this; do not let it consume you, as fire consumes dry reeds.” He continued, “If Rāma has ever done you, O wicked one, any wrongful act, what harm has this lowly Vaidehī shown you here? With eyes wide like a startled deer, gentle in nature and noble in mind, what harm could Janaka’s daughter ever do to you? Surely, sending Rāma into exile is enough for you. Why commit these further pitiful and sinful acts?” The king reminded her, “I have already promised, as you demanded, in the presence of all, when you spoke about Rāma’s consecration. Now, by exceeding that, you wish to go to hell, since you even wish to see Maithilī dressed in bark-cloth.” As Daśaratha spoke thus, Rāma, ready to depart for the forest, bowed his head and addressed his father: “This is my mother Kausalyā, righteous and renowned, aged and of noble character. My lord, she does not blame you. O giver of boons, you should honor her—now bereft of me, plunged into an ocean of grief, facing a sorrow she has never known before. You, who are to be revered, should care for her so that she does not perish from grief for her son. Thinking of me, that devoted woman would live only because of you. Support my mother, who is like Indra’s consort and now stricken with sorrow, so that while I dwell in the forest, worn down by grief, she does not abandon her life and go to the abode of Yama.” As the thirty-ninth chapter began, Daśaratha, hearing Rāma’s words and seeing him clad as an ascetic, fell unconscious with his wife. Tormented by grief, the king could not meet Rāma’s gaze nor speak to him, his mind completely overwhelmed. For a moment, the great-armed king, overcome by sorrow, lost awareness, lamenting and thinking only of Rāma. He reflected with anguish, “Surely, I must have separated many calves from their mothers in the past, or harmed living beings; that is why this has come upon me. Yet, even though the time has not come, my life does not leave my body; though I am tormented by Kaikeyī, death does not come to me. I see before me my son, shining like fire, standing there, having set aside his fine garments and taken on the ascetic’s attire. All these people are distressed because of that one Kaikeyī, who, striving for her own gain, has resorted to this deceit.” Overwhelmed by tears, Daśaratha could only utter Rāma’s name once, unable to speak further, his senses lost in grief.