With a gentle but earnest heart, Rama turned to Lakshmana and said, "You must care for my mother, who is as noble as Indra's consort and now stricken with grief. While I dwell in the forest, weighed down by sorrow, see that she does not abandon her life and go to Yama's abode." Now, let us hear the sacred account of the thirty-ninth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, from the Ayodhyā section. When King Daśaratha heard Rama's words and saw him clad in ascetic garments, a wave of anguish overcame him. Together with his wife, he lost consciousness, unable to bear the sight of his beloved son in such attire. Tormented by grief, the king could not bring himself to look at Rama, nor could he speak to him—his mind was overwhelmed with sorrow. For a moment, the great-armed monarch, his awareness dimmed by sorrow, thought only of Rama and lamented deeply within. He reflected, "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 the time for my end has not come, my life does not leave my body. Tormented by Kaikeyi, even death does not claim me. Here I am, seeing before me my son—radiant as fire—standing, having set aside his princely garments for the simple attire of an ascetic." He looked around at the sorrowful faces and thought, "All these people are distressed because of that one Kaikeyi, who, seeking her own gain, has resorted to such deceit." Overcome by tears, the king could only utter, "Rāma," and found himself unable to speak further. After a moment, regaining his senses, the king's eyes filled with tears as he turned to Sumantra and said, "Harness the chariot drawn by the finest horses, and bring it here. Take this noble one far from the city, into the countryside." With a heavy heart, he added, "So this, it seems, 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 in action—yoked the beautifully 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, always wise and resolute, summoned one who managed the royal wealth. With urgency, he instructed, "Quickly bring for Vaidehī these excellent garments and great ornaments—enough to last her for the years ahead." The attendant hurried to the treasury, gathered all that was needed, and swiftly presented them to Sītā. Adorned with these splendid ornaments, noble Vaidehī set out for the forest, her beauty illuminating her limbs. Thus adorned, she shone within the palace, like the sky aglow at dawn with the rising sun. Her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, weeping, embraced Sītā with both arms and gently kissed her head. With deep emotion, she spoke: "In this world, women, though always honored by their loved ones, do not support their fallen husbands; they are unfaithful. Such is the nature of women: once they have enjoyed happiness, at the slightest misfortune, they turn away, abandoning 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." "But 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 these words, which were filled with righteousness and purpose, Sītā stood before her mother-in-law with joined palms and replied, "Noble lady, I will do everything that you instruct me. I know well how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband, and I have heard it often. Please do not try to persuade me by improper means; just as light cannot leave the moon, I am incapable of deviating from righteousness." She continued, "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, devoted to the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I ever disregard my husband? For to a woman, the husband is divine." Hearing Sītā's words, which touched her deeply, Kausalyā—pure in spirit—shed tears born of both sorrow and joy. Seeing her thus, with joined palms, Rama, the supremely righteous, addressed his mother, "Mother, do not be sorrowful; you should look after 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 spoken thus to his mother, Rama looked upon the many mothers gathered there. With joined palms, he addressed them, his words grounded in righteousness, "Whatever harshness has occurred, even unknowingly, through living together, I ask you all to forgive me; I entreat you." Thus, in the midst of sorrow and separation, Rama, Sītā, and their family spoke with hearts full of virtue and love, each upholding dharma in the face of adversity.