After speaking, the king was so overcome by tears that he could only utter Rāma’s name once, unable to say more. In a short while, regaining his composure, his eyes still brimming with tears, he 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.” Reflecting in anguish, he lamented, “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, ever swift, prepared the adorned chariot with excellent horses and brought it forth. Once the chariot, shining with gold and yoked to splendid steeds, was ready, Sumantra bowed with joined palms and announced it to Prince Rāma. Meanwhile, the king urgently summoned a steward skilled in managing wealth, and spoke with wisdom, his resolve pure: “Quickly bring for Vaidehī these excellent garments and great ornaments, enough for the years ahead.” The steward obeyed, fetching everything from the treasury at once and delivering them swiftly to Sītā. The noble Vaidehī, Sītā, adorned herself with those splendid ornaments, beautifying her limbs as she prepared to depart for the forest. So radiant was she, that the house seemed to shine like the dawn-lit sky when the sun rises. Her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, weeping, embraced her with both arms, smelled the crown of Maithilī’s head, and spoke: “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 those closest to them. Women are ever untruthful, fickle, hard-hearted, and cruel; their minds dwell on evil, and their affections last but a moment. Neither family, nor deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even affection—nothing binds the hearts of women, for their hearts are inconstant. Yet for women 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 above all.” Hearing these words, Sītā, standing before her mother-in-law, joined her palms and replied, her voice gentle and resolute: “I will do everything, noble lady, that you instruct me. I know how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband, and I have heard it as well. Noble lady, 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.” Sītā’s words, full of sincerity and devotion, touched Kausalyā’s heart. The pure-hearted queen shed tears, mingled with both sorrow and joy. Seeing Kausalyā, honored among mothers, Rāma, supremely righteous, spoke 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 spoken his intent to his mother, Rāma looked upon the hundreds of mothers gathered there. He addressed them, his palms joined, his voice grounded in righteousness: “Whatever harshness may have occurred, even unknowingly, through living together, I ask you all to forgive me; I entreat you.” At his words, a sound arose among them like the cry of cranes, as Rāghava spoke to the king’s wives. The house of Daśaratha was transformed—filled with lamentation and grief, plunged into misfortune, and exceedingly sorrowful. It resounded not with joy, but with the wails of drums, cymbals, and thunderclouds. Then, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, hands joined in reverence, circumambulated the king, sorrowful, performing the ritual farewell. Having received the king’s permission, the righteous Rāghava, with Sītā bewildered by grief, bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa followed his brother, bowing to Kausalyā, and then grasped the feet of his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, weeping, spoke to Saumitri as he bowed, wishing him well, and kissed Lakṣmaṇa, the mighty-armed, on the head. “You are sent for dwelling in the forest, devoted to your dear ones; do not be careless, my son, as you follow your brother Rāma. Whether in adversity or prosperity, this is your path, O blameless one; it is the dharma of the virtuous to be obedient to the elder.