For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, King Daśaratha—mighty of arm and noble in spirit—was utterly overcome by sorrow. His awareness slipped away, his mind consumed by thoughts only of Rāma, his beloved son. In his anguish, he lamented, “Surely, in some former time, I must have separated many calves from their mothers, or brought harm to living beings; it is for these past actions that such grief has now come upon me. Yet, although the appointed hour of my death has not arrived, my life lingers on in this body. Even as I am tormented by Kaikeyī’s harshness, death does not release me.” With pain in his heart, the king gazed at Rāma—his son, shining like a blazing fire—standing before him, having set aside his princely robes for the simple attire of an ascetic. Daśaratha’s thoughts turned bitter: “All these people are distressed because of Kaikeyī alone, who, striving for her own gain, has resorted to deceit and brought this calamity upon us.” Having spoken thus, the king’s senses were drowned in tears. He could utter only a single word—“Rāma”—and then, overwhelmed, could say no more. After a short while, regaining his composure, Daśaratha, his eyes still brimming with tears, addressed Sumantra, his charioteer: “Harness the chariot with the finest horses and bring it here. Take this noble one—my son—far from the city into the countryside.” The king’s heart ached with irony and sorrow: “So 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, ever swift and capable, yoked the adorned chariot with splendid horses and quickly arrived. With the golden chariot prepared and yoked to the finest steeds, Sumantra approached the prince, bowing with joined palms to announce its readiness. Meanwhile, the king, anxious and mindful of time and duty, called for an attendant who managed the royal treasury. He instructed him with urgency and wisdom: “Quickly bring for Vaidehī—Sītā—these excellent garments and grand ornaments, making sure there is enough for all the years to come.” Obedient to the king’s command, the attendant hurried to the treasury, gathered everything at once, and swiftly delivered the garments and ornaments to Sītā. The noble Vaidehī, adorned in those splendid ornaments, prepared herself for the journey to the forest, each ornament enhancing her grace and beauty. Thus adorned, Sītā shone within the palace like the dawn sky illuminated by the rising sun. Her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, overcome with emotion, embraced Sītā with both arms, weeping as she pressed her lips to Sītā’s head. With tears streaming, she spoke: “In this world, women, though cherished by their loved ones, often do not stand by their fallen husbands; they prove unfaithful. Such is the nature of women: once they have enjoyed happiness, at the first sign of misfortune, they turn away, abandoning even their own. Women are ever untruthful, fickle, hard-hearted, and cruel; their minds turn to evil, their affections fleeting. Neither family, nor deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even affection—nothing truly binds 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. Do not disregard your husband, who has departed to the forest; whether he is wealthy or destitute, he remains your god above all.” Sītā, taking in these words filled with righteousness and purpose, stood before her mother-in-law with joined palms and replied with gentle resolve: “Noble lady, I will do everything you instruct me. I know how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband, for I have heard and understood these teachings. Please do not try to persuade me otherwise; 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 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? Having devoted myself 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—suddenly wept, shedding tears born of both sorrow and joy. Seeing her thus, Rāma, ever righteous and honoring his mother, approached her with joined palms and spoke: “Mother, do not grieve; look upon my father. The time of my stay in the forest will pass swiftly, and before you know it, I will return, surrounded by friends. Fifteen years will pass for you as if in sleep, and you will see me here again.” Having spoken thus and offered comfort to his mother, Rāma turned his gaze to the many mothers gathered there. With joined palms, the son of Daśaratha, though afflicted with grief, addressed his mothers with words grounded in righteousness: “Whatever harshness may have occurred, even unknowingly, through our life together, I beg your forgiveness. I entreat you all.” As Rāma spoke these words to the king’s wives, a sound rose among them, like the mournful cry of cranes, filling the palace with sorrow. The house of Daśaratha became as it once was in times of misfortune—resounding not with music, but with lamentation and grief, plunged into sorrow and despair. Let the fortieth chapter now be heard. Then, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, with hands joined in reverence, sorrowfully circled the king, performing the ritual circumambulation, preparing to leave behind their home and loved ones for the exile that awaited them.