After a brief moment of unconsciousness, King Daśaratha, his eyes brimming with tears, regained his senses and addressed Sumantra, his trusted charioteer. “Harness the chariot,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow, “let it be drawn by the finest horses and brought here at once. Take this noble son far from the city, out into the countryside.” The king’s heart ached as he reflected on the bitter irony of fate. “So this,” he thought, “is the reward for virtue among the virtuous: that a noble hero, steadfast in righteousness, is sent into exile in the forest by his own father and mother.” Sumantra, ever swift to carry out his master’s wishes, heard the king’s command and immediately yoked the beautifully adorned chariot with its excellent horses. With the chariot ready, shining with gold and harnessed to the finest steeds, Sumantra went to announce its arrival to the prince, bowing with joined palms in reverence. At the same time, the king, his mind ever attentive to propriety and the needs of the moment, summoned a trusted attendant who managed the royal treasury. “Quickly,” Daśaratha instructed, “bring for Vaidehī—Sītā—these excellent garments and splendid ornaments. Be sure to count out enough for all the years she will spend in the forest.” The attendant, thus directed, hurried to the treasury and returned at once with the requested ornaments and garments, delivering them quickly to Sītā. The noble Vaidehī adorned herself with these various, resplendent ornaments, beautifying her limbs as she prepared to depart for the forest. So adorned, Sītā shone with radiant beauty, making the royal household glow, much like the sky, illuminated at dawn by the rising sun. As Sītā readied herself, her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, overcome with emotion, embraced her tightly with both arms. Weeping, she pressed her lips to Sītā’s head and spoke words laden with sorrow and warning: “In this world, my child, women, though always cherished by their dear ones, often fail to support their husbands when they fall into misfortune; they may prove unfaithful. Such is the nature of women: having once enjoyed happiness, at the first sign of adversity, they turn away and abandon even those closest to them. Women are said to be ever untruthful, fickle, hard-hearted, and cruel; their minds set on 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 those women who are steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning, the husband alone is the highest sanctity. You must not disregard your husband, who now departs to the forest; whether he is wealthy or destitute, he is your god among all.” Hearing these words, Sītā, standing humbly before her mother-in-law, joined her palms and spoke with gentle firmness: “Noble lady, I will do everything you instruct me. I know well how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband; I have heard it taught and hold it in my heart. Please do not try to persuade me by improper means—for I am incapable of deviating from righteousness, just as light cannot be separated from the moon. A lute cannot sound without its strings, nor can a chariot move without its wheels; even a woman blessed with a hundred sons cannot find happiness without her husband. A father gives only so much, a brother gives in measure, a son gives in measure—but who would not honor the husband, the one who gives the immeasurable? Having devoted myself to the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I ever disregard my husband? To a woman, the husband is divine.” Kausalyā, deeply moved by Sītā’s steadfast words, felt her heart overflow. Tears streamed from her eyes, born of both sorrow for the coming separation and joy at Sītā’s unwavering devotion. At that moment, Rāma, the supremely righteous son, approached his mother with joined palms, reverently addressing her: “Mother, do not grieve. You must look after my father. Even the years I spend in the forest will soon pass, and you will see me return, surrounded by friends. Fifteen years will seem but a fleeting dream, and I shall come back to you.” Having spoken thus, Rāma looked upon the many mothers gathered there, all afflicted by grief. With joined palms, he addressed them with words grounded in righteousness: “If, in the course of living together, any harshness has occurred—even unknowingly—I ask you all to forgive me. I entreat you with all my heart.” A wail arose among the assembled women, a sound like the mournful cry of cranes, as Rāma thus spoke to the wives of the king. The house of Daśaratha, once filled with joy, now resounded with the clamor of lamentation and grief, echoing like drums, cymbals, and thunderclouds—plunged into misfortune and deep sorrow. Now, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, their hands joined in reverence, performed the ritual circumambulation of the king, their hearts heavy with sorrow. After receiving the king’s permission, the righteous Rāghava, accompanied by Sītā—herself bewildered by grief—bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, following his brother’s example, bowed to Kausalyā, and then, approaching his own mother Sumitrā, grasped her feet in respect. Sumitrā, weeping, blessed her mighty-armed son as he bowed before her and kissed him tenderly on the head. “You are being sent to dwell in the forest, devoted to your dear ones,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “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. This conduct is fitting for this noble lineage, eternal as it is: giving, initiation in sacrifices, and self-sacrifice in battle.” Thus, with blessings and sorrow, the noble exiles prepared to depart, upholding the ancient ways of righteousness and devotion.