As Sītā, the noble Vaidehī, prepared to depart for the forest alongside Rāma, a wave of determination swept through the people of Ayodhyā. “If this city is to be abandoned,” they declared, “we too will follow them from here.” The resolve was not theirs alone—the royal guards pledged to go wherever Rāghava and his wife went, and so did all who lived by his side. The very kingdom, the city, and its attendants were ready to leave their homes and follow Rāma into exile. Bharata, together with his brother Shatrughna, would also don garments of bark and dwell in the forest, faithfully following their elder brother, Kakutstha, as he lived out his exile. In such a case, the earth itself would be emptied of people, leaving only the trees behind. Kaikeyī, the instigator of this sorrow, would find herself ruling alone—a ruler standing against the welfare of her people. For truly, that would not be a kingdom where Rāma was not king; instead, the very forest where he dwelled would become the kingdom, for the hearts of the people belonged to him. Bharata would never wish to rule a land not given to him by his father; nor would he live as your son, Kaikeyī, if he was truly born of the king. No matter where you might flee—even if you rose from earth to sky—Bharata, who knows well the conduct of his ancestors, would never act otherwise. Thus, in your greed for your own son, you have wronged another, for there is no one in this world who is not devoted to Rāma. Today, Kaikeyī, you shall see even the beasts, wild animals, birds, and trees turn toward Rāma as he departs. Now, O queen, if you wish, give the finest ornaments to your daughter-in-law and remove the bark garment; but Vasiṣṭha, the revered sage, has forbidden that garment, declaring it should not be given to her. Yet, by your choosing, daughter of the king of Kekaya, Rāma alone is to dwell in the forest. Still, Sītā, always adorned, will live in the wilderness 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 granting of the boon. Now, listen to the next part of this tale. As Sītā, though protected, appeared as if unprotected while she put on the rough garment of bark, a cry of anguish rose from the people: “Shame on you, Daśaratha!” The king, pierced by their outcry, lost faith in life, in virtue, and in his own honor. The great king of the Ikṣvāku line sighed deeply and turned to his wife, Kaikeyī: “Sītā should not go wearing a garment of kuśa grass,” he said. “She is delicate, young, always accustomed to comfort; my teacher has spoken truly—she is not fit for the forest.” “She does no wrong to anyone, this ascetic daughter of the best of kings. Yet here she stands, in the midst of the people, clad in bark, senseless like a wandering mendicant. Let the daughter of Janaka cast off these rough garments; never before have I made such a vow. Let her go to the forest as she wishes, taking her ornaments and treasures. By me—unworthy of life—a cruel vow has been made and kept. But you, out of childishness, have accepted it; do not let it consume you, as fire devours a dry reed. If Rāma has ever wronged you, O wicked one, or acted improperly, what harm has this gentle Vaidehī done to you? 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 punishment enough. Why do you add these further pitiful and sinful acts? I have already promised, as you demanded, in the presence of all, when you spoke of Rāma’s consecration. Now, by exceeding that, you seek your own ruin, for you even wish to see Maithilī dressed in bark-cloth.” As his father spoke thus, Rāma, ready to depart for the forest, with his head bowed, addressed him. “This is my mother Kausalyā—righteous, 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. You, who are to be revered, should care for her, so she does not perish from grief for her son; for 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.” Now, hear the next chapter in this sacred tale. When he heard Rāma’s words and saw him dressed as an ascetic, the king, together with his wife, lost consciousness, overwhelmed by grief. He could not bring himself to look at Rāghava, nor could he speak to him, his mind completely overcome. For a moment, the great-armed king, lost in sorrow, lost all awareness, lamenting and thinking only of Rāma. He thought, “Surely, in a past life, I must have separated many calves from their mothers, or harmed living beings; that is why this suffering 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 will 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.” Having spoken thus, his senses overwhelmed by tears, he could only utter “Rāma” once, unable to say more. After a moment, regaining consciousness, the king, his eyes filled with tears, turned to Sumantra and spoke.