Today, Kaikeyī, you will witness a remarkable sight: as Rāma departs, even the beasts, wild animals, birds, and trees will turn toward him, drawn by his presence. Now, O queen, prepare to give the finest ornaments to your daughter-in-law, Sītā, removing from her the rough garment of bark. Yet, remember, the wise sage Vasiṣṭha has forbidden that she be made to wear such attire. It is by your choice, daughter of the king of Kekaya, that Rāma must dwell alone in the forest. Still, Sītā, ever adorned and steadfast, chooses to accompany Rāghava into exile, her devotion undiminished. Let the princess go forth, well attended by the best vehicles and servants, with all varieties of garments and arrangements; for she is not bound by the boon you demanded. Now, listen as the tale continues. As Sītā, protected yet as if forsaken, donned the bark garment, the people of Ayodhyā cried out in anguish, “Shame on you, Daśaratha!” Overwhelmed by their outcry, the king’s heart faltered—he lost faith in his life, his virtue, and his own honor. With a deep sigh, the king spoke to his wife: “Kaikeyī, Sītā should not go to the forest wearing a garment of kuśa grass. She is delicate, youthful, and has always known comfort; my teacher Vasiṣṭha is right—she is not fit for such hardship. “She has done nothing to deserve this, this ascetic daughter of the noble king. Standing among the people, clad in bark, she appears senseless, like a wandering mendicant. Let Janaka’s daughter cast off these rough garments—I have never made such a vow. Let her 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 kept. But you, out of childishness, have insisted on this; do not let it consume you, as fire devours a dry reed. If Rāma has ever wronged you, O misguided one, what harm has this gentle Vaidehī done to you? With eyes wide like a startled deer, gentle in nature and noble in mind, what possible offense could Janaka’s daughter have given you? “Surely, O wicked one, sending Rāma into exile is suffering enough for you. Why do you add these further pitiful and sinful acts? I have already granted your demand before all, when you spoke of Rāma’s consecration. Now, by exceeding even that, you wish to bring ruin upon yourself, since you even want to see Maithilī dressed in bark-cloth.” As the king spoke thus, Rāma, ready for his journey into the forest, bowed his head and addressed his father with humility: “Here is my mother, Kausalyā—righteous, renowned, venerable, and noble. She does not blame you, my lord. O giver of boons, you should honor her—now bereft of me and plunged into an ocean of grief she has never before known. Please care for her, so that she does not perish from sorrow for her son; for her thoughts of me, that devoted woman, will find solace only in you. “Support my mother, who is like Indra’s consort yet 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 realm of Yama.” Now, hear how the story unfolds further. Upon hearing Rāma’s words and seeing him dressed as an ascetic, the king, together with his wife, fainted away, overcome by grief. The king, tormented, could not bring himself to look at Rāghava, nor could he speak to him—his mind was overwhelmed. For a moment, the great-armed king lost all awareness, lamenting and thinking only of Rāma. He thought, “Surely, in some past life, I must have separated many calves from their mothers or harmed living beings; that is why such sorrow has come upon me. Yet, even though my 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, seeking her own gain, has resorted to this deceit.” Having spoken thus, his senses overwhelmed by tears, the king could only utter “Rāma” once, unable to say more. But after a moment, regaining consciousness, tears streaming from his eyes, he spoke to 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 to act, yoked the splendid chariot with its excellent horses and brought it forth. The charioteer, after preparing the golden-adorned chariot, announced its readiness to the prince, bowing with joined palms. Then the king, wise and pure in resolve, summoned an attendant and said, “Quickly bring for Vaidehī these excellent garments and great ornaments, enough to last for the years ahead.” The attendant hurried to the treasury, gathered all that was needed, and swiftly gave everything to Sītā. Thus adorned with those many splendid ornaments, the noble Vaidehī set out for the forest, her beauty undiminished, her limbs radiant as she walked beside Rāma into exile.