As Sītā, though protected, appeared as if unprotected while donning her simple bark garment, the people of Ayodhyā cried out in anguish, “Shame on you, Daśaratha!” Their outcry pierced the king’s heart, and he became deeply distressed, losing faith not only in life, but in virtue and his own honor. The Ikṣvāku king sighed heavily and turned to his wife, Kaikeyī. “Kaikeyī,” he said, “Sītā should not go forth wearing a garment made of kuśa grass. She is delicate and young, always accustomed to comfort. My teacher was right—she is not fit for the forest. She does nothing for anyone, this ascetic daughter of the best king. Standing among the people, clad in bark, she seems senseless, like some wandering mendicant. Let the daughter of Janaka cast off these garments of bark; I have never made such a vow before. 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. But you, in your childishness, have accepted it; do not let it burn you up, as fire consumes a dry reed. If Rāma has ever done you, O wicked one, any wrongful or improper 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, O wicked one, sending Rāma into exile is enough for you. Why do you commit these further pitiful and sinful acts? I have already promised, as you demanded, O queen, 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 want to see Maithilī dressed in bark-cloth.” As his father spoke thus, Rāma, ready to depart for the forest, with head bowed, addressed him: “This is my mother Kausalyā, righteous and renowned, aged and of noble character; and, 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; for thinking of me, that devoted woman would live only because of you. Please 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 begins the thirty-ninth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. When Daśaratha heard Rāma’s words and saw him dressed as an ascetic, both the king and his wife lost consciousness, overwhelmed by grief. The king could not bring himself to look at Rāghava, nor could he speak to him, his mind clouded by sorrow. For a moment, the great-armed king lost awareness, lamenting and thinking only of Rāma. He wondered, “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.” His senses overwhelmed by tears, Daśaratha could only utter “Rāma” once, unable to say more. After a moment, regaining consciousness, the king, his eyes filled with tears, spoke to Sumantra, his charioteer: “Harness the chariot, drawn by the finest horses, and bring it here; take this noble one far from the city into the countryside. Thus, I think, this is said to be 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 in action, yoked the adorned chariot with horses and went to Rāma. The charioteer, after joining the chariot adorned with gold and yoked to excellent horses, announced it to the prince, bowing with joined palms. The king, summoning with urgency one occupied with managing wealth, spoke wisely, always pure in resolve: “Quickly bring for Vaidehī these excellent garments and great ornaments, counting out enough for the years ahead.” Thus addressed, the attendant went to the treasury, brought everything at once, and quickly gave it all to Sītā. That noble Vaidehī, adorned with various splendid ornaments, set out for the forest, beautifying her limbs. Thus beautifully adorned, Vaidehī made that house shine, like the sky illuminated at dawn by the rising sun. Her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, weeping, embraced Sītā with both arms, smelled the head of Maithilī, and spoke these words: “In this world, women, though always honored by their dear ones, do not support their fallen husbands; they are unfaithful. Such is the nature of women: having once enjoyed happiness, at the slightest misfortune, they turn away and abandon even their own. Women are ever untruthful, fickle, hard-hearted, and cruel; their minds are set on evil, and their affections last but a moment.