King Daśaratha, his heart burdened by the weight of his promises, spoke with pain to Queen Kaikeyī: “O queen, I have already given my word to you before all, when you came and demanded that I fulfill your wishes regarding Rāma’s consecration. Now, by pressing for more, by insisting even that you wish to see Maithilī clad in bark-cloth, you would bring yourself to ruin. Such a wish leads only to darkness.” As the king uttered these words, Rāma, ever dutiful and prepared for exile, stood before his father with his head bowed in respect. He addressed Daśaratha with gentle humility: “Here is my mother, Kausalyā, righteous, renowned, advanced in years, and noble in conduct. My lord, she does not blame you for what has come to pass. O giver of boons, I beg you to honor her. Now, bereft of me, she is plunged into an ocean of grief, enduring a sorrow she has never known. You, whom she reveres, should care for her so that she does not perish from longing for her son. For, thinking of me, her devoted heart will find life only in your presence. Please support my mother—she is like Indra’s own consort and now stricken with sorrow—so that, while I dwell in the forest and she is worn down by grief, she does not abandon her life and journey to the abode of Yama.” Now begins the thirty-ninth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section. Upon hearing Rāma’s words and seeing him attired as an ascetic, Daśaratha and his wife were overcome and lost consciousness, their hearts shattered by grief. The king, tormented and overwhelmed, could not even bring himself to look at Rāma, nor speak to him. For a moment, the great-armed monarch, lost in sorrow, drifted into darkness, lamenting and thinking only of his beloved son. In his heart, he mourned, “Surely, in some past life, I must have separated many calves from their mothers, or harmed living beings; that is why such suffering has come upon me now. Yet, though my time has not come, my life clings to my body—death does not come to me, though Kaikeyī torments me so. Here stands my son before me, shining like fire, having set aside his princely garments for the garb of an ascetic. All these people are distressed because of Kaikeyī alone, who, seeking her own gain, has resorted to this cruel deceit.” His senses clouded by tears, Daśaratha could only utter, “Rāma,” unable to say more. After a time, regaining some measure of awareness, the king, his eyes brimming with tears, called to Sumantra: “Harness the chariot, drawn by the finest horses, and bring it here. You must take this noble prince far from the city, into the countryside. So 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 attentive, yoked the adorned chariot with excellent horses and brought it forth. Bowing with joined palms, the charioteer announced to the prince that all was ready. Meanwhile, the king summoned the steward of his wealth and, wise in the ways of time and propriety, instructed him: “Quickly bring for Vaidehī these excellent garments and splendid ornaments, counting out enough for the years ahead.” The steward obeyed at once, going to the treasury and returning swiftly with all that was needed, which he gave to Sītā. Thus adorned in various splendid ornaments, noble Vaidehī prepared herself for the journey to the forest, her beauty shining forth and gracing her limbs. So radiant was she, that she filled the house with light, like the sky at dawn illuminated by the rising sun. Kausalyā, her mother-in-law, weeping and overcome, embraced Sītā with both arms, smelling the crown of Maithilī’s head, and spoke these sorrowful words: “In this world, women, though cherished by their loved ones, do not support their husbands when they fall from fortune; they are unfaithful. Such is the nature of women: having once enjoyed happiness, at the first sign of 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. Yet for those who are steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning, the husband alone is the highest sanctity. You must not disregard your husband, even as he departs for the forest. Whether he is wealthy or destitute, he remains your god above all.” Sītā listened intently to these words, which were imbued with righteousness and purpose. Standing before her mother-in-law with joined palms, she replied with gentle firmness: “Noble lady, I will do all that you instruct me. I know well how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband, and I have heard it spoken as well. You should not try to persuade me by improper means; I am incapable of turning from righteousness, just as light cannot depart from the moon. A lute cannot be played without strings, nor can a chariot move without wheels; even a woman with a hundred sons cannot find happiness without her husband. A father gives in measure, a brother gives in measure, a son gives in measure; but who would not honor the husband, the giver of the immeasurable? Thus, having accepted the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I, noble lady, ever disregard my husband? For to a woman, the husband is divine.” Hearing Sītā’s words, which touched her deeply, Kausalyā—pure in spirit—was moved to tears, weeping with sorrow and yet also with joy at the steadfastness and virtue of her beloved daughter-in-law.