As the fateful moment approached, words of anguish and foreboding filled the palace. Kaikeyī was warned: with the earth emptied of its people, with only the trees left standing, she alone would rule—a wicked ruler, presiding over a kingdom bereft of its subjects, standing against the very welfare of the people. For, truly, a land without Rāma as king would cease to be a kingdom; wherever Rāma dwelled, even a forest would become a kingdom. It was made clear that Bharata, loyal son of Daśaratha, would never wish to rule a realm not granted by his father, nor would he live in harmony with Kaikeyī if he truly bore the king’s blood. No matter how high Kaikeyī might rise, even to the sky, Bharata—knower of his ancestors’ noble conduct—would never act otherwise. Thus, through her greed for her own son, Kaikeyī had wronged her own child, for in this world, there was no one who was not devoted to Rāma. Kaikeyī was told that she would soon witness an extraordinary sight: as Rāma departed, even the beasts, wild animals, birds, and trees would turn toward him in sorrow and devotion. And so, the queen was instructed to give the finest ornaments to Sītā, her daughter-in-law, removing the harsh bark garment. Yet, the sage Vasiṣṭha had forbidden that Sītā be given such a garment, for it was not right. It was Kaikeyī alone, daughter of the king of Kekaya, who had chosen that Rāma dwell in the forest; yet Sītā, ever adorned, would go with her beloved Rāghava. Let the princess, it was urged, set out well attended, with the finest vehicles and servants, with all kinds of garments and arrangements, for she was not bound by Kaikeyī’s grant of the boon. As preparations unfolded, the people of Ayodhyā cried out in grief and outrage when they saw Sītā, protected yet as if unprotected, putting on the bark garment. “Shame on you, Daśaratha!” they cried. Stricken by their outcry, the king’s faith in life, virtue, and his own honor faltered. The Ikṣvāku king, his heart heavy, spoke with a sigh to Kaikeyī: “Sītā should not go wearing a garment of kuśa grass. She is delicate, young, and ever accustomed to comfort; my teacher has spoken truly—she is not fit for the forest. This ascetic daughter of Janaka, who does nothing to harm anyone, stands among the people clad in bark, appearing senseless, like a wandering mendicant. Let her 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, unworthy of life, a cruel vow has been made and strictly kept. Yet you, out of childishness, have accepted this; do not let it destroy you, as fire consumes dry reeds. If Rāma has ever done you any wrong, O wicked one, what harm has this gentle Vaidehī shown 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, it is enough for you to send Rāma into exile; why do you commit these further pitiful and sinful acts? I have already promised, as you demanded, O queen, before all, when you spoke of Rāma’s consecration. Now, by exceeding that, you wish to consign yourself to hell, since you even wish to see Maithilī dressed in bark-cloth.” As his father spoke thus, Rāma, ready to depart for the forest, with head bowed, addressed his father gently: “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 before. You, who are to be revered, must 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 Rāma finished speaking, the king, Daśaratha, saw him dressed as an ascetic and, together with his wife, lost consciousness, overwhelmed by grief. For a moment, the great-armed king, overcome by sorrow, lost awareness, lamenting and thinking only of Rāma. He thought to himself, “Surely, I must have separated many calves from their mothers in the past, 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 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.” His senses overwhelmed by tears, Daśaratha could only utter “Rāma” once, unable to say more. After a time, regaining consciousness, the king, his eyes brimming with tears, addressed Sumantra: “Harness the chariot, drawn by the finest horses, and bring it here; take this noble one far from the city into the countryside. Thus, it seems, this is the reward for virtue among the virtuous: that a noble hero is sent into exile in the forest by his own father and mother.” Hearing the king’s command, Sumantra, swift and steadfast, yoked the adorned chariot with horses and prepared it for the journey, ready to carry Rāma away from the heart of Ayodhyā.