A deep anguish filled the palace as Dasharatha, tormented by the consequences of his own vows, spoke with sorrow to Kaikeyi. “I, unworthy of life, have made a cruel promise and kept it strictly,” he lamented. “But you, out of childishness, have accepted this; do not let it consume you, as fire devours dry reeds.” He continued, his voice trembling, “If Rama has ever wronged you, O wicked one, what harm has this lowly Vaidehi caused 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?” Dasharatha’s pain grew sharper. “Surely, sending Rama 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 Rama’s consecration. Now, by exceeding that, you wish to go to hell, since you even want to see Maithili dressed in bark-cloth.” As Dasharatha spoke thus, Rama, ready to depart for the forest, bowed his head in humility and addressed his father. “This is my mother Kausalya, righteous and renowned, aged and noble in character. She does not blame you, my lord. 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. You should 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 Dasharatha heard Rama’s words and saw him dressed as an ascetic, he and his wife lost consciousness, overcome by grief. The king, tormented, could not look at Rāghava nor speak to him, his mind overwhelmed. For a moment, the great-armed king, overcome by sorrow, lost awareness, lamenting and thinking only of Rama. He wondered bitterly, “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 Kaikeyi, 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 Kaikeyi, who, striving for her own gain, has resorted to this deceit.” Having spoken thus, his senses overwhelmed by tears, Dasharatha 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 there. 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, “Quickly bring for Vaidehī these excellent garments and great ornaments, counting out enough for the years ahead.” Thus addressed, the steward 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 the house shine, like the sky illuminated at dawn by the rising sun. Embracing her with both arms, her mother-in-law Kausalya, weeping, 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. Neither family, nor deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even affection—nothing holds the hearts of women, for their hearts are inconstant. For women who are steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning, the husband alone is the highest sanctity. You must not disregard your son who has departed to the forest; whether he is wealthy or destitute, he remains your god among all.” Understanding those words, which were imbued with righteousness and purpose, Sītā, standing before her mother-in-law, joined her palms and spoke gently. “I will do everything, noble lady, that you instruct me; I know how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband, and I have heard it as well. Noble lady, you should not try to persuade me by improper means; I am incapable of deviating from righteousness, just as light cannot depart from the moon.” Thus, in the palace of Ayodhya, sorrow and virtue mingled, as the royal family prepared for the exile of Rama, Sītā, and Lakshmana, each bearing their grief with dignity and devotion.