As the story unfolds in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā section, we come to the thirty-ninth chapter. Here, the atmosphere in the palace is heavy with sorrow. When King Daśaratha beheld his beloved son Rāma, now clad in the simple garb of an ascetic, and heard his steadfast words, the king and his wife were so stricken with grief that they lost consciousness. The king, overwhelmed by anguish, could not bring himself to look at Rāma, nor could he speak to him; his mind was utterly clouded by pain. For a time, the great-armed king remained insensible, his heart consumed by thoughts of Rāma and the sorrow of their impending separation. In his suffering, Daśaratha reflected on his fate, wondering if he was now reaping the consequences of past misdeeds—perhaps, he thought, he had once separated calves from their mothers or harmed other living beings, and now this sorrow had befallen him. Yet, even as he was tormented by Kaikeyī’s demands, death did not come to relieve him, though he felt that surely his time had come. He gazed upon his son, who stood shining like fire before him, having set aside his princely garments for the coarse clothing of an ascetic. The king lamented that all those present were plunged into distress because of a single person—Kaikeyī—who, seeking her own advantage, had resorted to deceit. Overwhelmed by tears, Daśaratha could barely utter Rāma’s name, unable to say more. After a time, the king regained his senses. His eyes brimming with tears, he called out to Sumantra, his trusted charioteer, and instructed him, “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, Daśaratha reflected bitterly that this, it seemed, was the reward for virtue among the virtuous: a noble hero sent into exile in the forest by his own father and mother. Upon hearing the king’s command, Sumantra, ever swift to act, yoked the splendid chariot with its excellent horses and made his way to the palace. Bowing with joined palms, he announced the arrival of the golden-adorned chariot to the prince. Meanwhile, the king, ever wise and attentive to time and place, summoned a steward and instructed him: “Quickly bring for Vaidehī—Sītā—these excellent garments and great ornaments, enough to last for the years ahead.” The steward promptly went to the treasury, gathered all that was needed, and brought the fine clothes and ornaments to Sītā. Thus adorned with splendid ornaments, the noble Vaidehī prepared to depart for the forest, her beauty shining forth and enhancing the radiance of her surroundings, like the sky at dawn illumined by the rising sun. As Sītā prepared to leave, her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, overcome with emotion, embraced her tightly and, weeping, kissed the crown of Sītā’s head. In her sorrow, Kausalyā spoke of the nature of women in the world, lamenting that though women are cherished, they often do not stand by their husbands in adversity, turning away at the first sign of misfortune. She spoke of the fickle, hard-hearted, and transient affections of women, saying that neither family, nor deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even affection could bind a woman’s heart, for it was inconstant. Yet she reminded Sītā that for women steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning, the husband alone is the highest sanctity. Kausalyā then urged Sītā not to disregard her son, Rāma, who was departing for the forest, for whether he was wealthy or destitute, he remained her god among all. Hearing these words, Sītā, ever righteous, stood before her mother-in-law with joined palms and replied, “Noble lady, I will do everything you instruct me. I know, and have heard, how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband. You should not try to persuade me by improper means, for 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 blessed with a hundred sons cannot find happiness without her husband. A father, a brother, a son—all give only in measure, but who would not honor the husband, the giver of the immeasurable? Having embraced the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I ever disregard my husband? For to a woman, the husband is divine.” Kausalyā, deeply moved by Sītā’s words—which touched her heart with their purity and resolve—shed tears born of both sorrow and joy. Seeing his mother thus, Rāma, supremely righteous and honored among sons, approached her with joined palms and spoke gently, “Mother, do not be sorrowful. Please, look upon my father. The period of my stay in the forest will soon pass, and I will return to you, surrounded by friends. Fifteen years will pass for you as if in a dream, and I shall be here again.” Having thus reassured his mother, Rāma turned to the many mothers gathered there, the wives of the king. With joined palms, Daśaratha’s son, his heart filled with humility and righteousness, addressed them all: “Whatever harshness may have occurred, even unknowingly, through our life together, I ask you all to forgive me; I entreat you.” As Rāma spoke these words to the king’s wives, a sound arose among them—a collective cry, plaintive and sorrowful, like the call of cranes echoing through the palace.