Rāma, preparing to depart for the forest, turned with deep reverence to Lakṣmaṇa and spoke with heartfelt concern. “You, who are to be honored, must care for my mother so that she does not perish from grief for her son. For, thinking of me, that devoted woman will live only because of you. Support her, Lakṣmaṇa, for she is like Indra’s own consort, yet now stricken with sorrow. While I dwell in the forest, worn down by grief, see that she does not abandon her life and journey to the abode of Yama.” As these words hung in the air, the narrative of the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa’s thirty-ninth chapter unfolds in the Ayodhyā section. When King Daśaratha heard Rāma’s words and beheld him dressed in the simple garb of an ascetic, he and his wife were overcome and lost consciousness, so great was their grief. Tormented by sorrow, the king could not bring himself to look upon Rāghava, nor speak to him, for his mind was utterly overwhelmed. For a moment, the mighty-armed king, conquered by his anguish, drifted from awareness, lamenting and thinking only of his beloved son. In his heart, Daśaratha wondered, “Surely, I must have separated many calves from their mothers in the past, or harmed living creatures; that is why such suffering has come upon me now. 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 here after setting aside his princely garments and donning the attire of an ascetic. All these people are distressed because of that one Kaikeyī, who, striving for her own gain, has resorted to such deceit.” Having spoken thus, his senses overwhelmed by tears, Daśaratha could only utter “Rāma” once, unable to say more. But after a moment, regaining his senses, 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.” He lamented, “This, I think, 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 splendid horses and presented it as instructed. Approaching the prince with joined palms, the charioteer announced that all was prepared. The king, acting with urgency and wisdom, summoned one entrusted with managing the royal wealth. “Quickly bring for Vaidehī these excellent garments and great ornaments,” he said, “counting out enough for the years ahead.” The royal servant, so instructed, went to the treasury, gathered all that was required, and brought it swiftly to Sītā. Thus, the noble Vaidehī, adorned with those various splendid ornaments, prepared herself for the journey, her beauty illuminating her form. So radiant was Sītā, she made the house shine like the sky at dawn, aglow with the rising sun. Her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, weeping, embraced her tightly and inhaled the scent of Maithilī’s head, then spoke with trembling voice: “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: once they have tasted 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. Yet, 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.” Hearing these words, which were imbued with righteousness and purpose, Sītā, standing before her mother-in-law with joined palms, replied respectfully: “I shall do everything, noble lady, that you instruct me. I know well how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband, for I have learned and heard it all. Please do not try to persuade me by improper means; I am incapable of deviating 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 become devoted to 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 heart, Kausalyā, pure in spirit, shed tears—tears born of both sorrow and joy. Seeing his mother thus, Rāma, supremely righteous, spoke gently to her: “Mother, do not be sorrowful; you should look upon my father. Even the period of my stay in the forest will soon come to an end. Fifteen years will pass for you as if in sleep, and you will see me here again, surrounded by friends.” Having thus spoken to his mother, Rāma looked upon the hundreds of mothers gathered there. Then, the son of Daśaratha, afflicted as they were, addressed his mothers with joined palms, speaking words grounded in righteousness.