The charioteer had prepared a splendid chariot, adorned with gold and yoked to noble horses. With deep respect, he approached the prince, bowing with joined palms, and announced that all was ready. Meanwhile, King Daśaratha, wise and ever mindful of what was appropriate for every time and place, called urgently for the officer in charge of the royal treasury. With a heart pure in purpose, the king instructed him, “Quickly bring for Vaidehī the finest garments and grand ornaments, enough to last her through the years ahead.” Obedient to the king’s command, the treasurer hurried to the treasury, gathered all that was required, and promptly presented the beautiful clothes and ornaments to Sītā. The noble Vaidehī then adorned herself with these splendid jewels and garments, gracing her limbs with their brilliance as she prepared to depart for the forest. Radiant in her finery, Sītā illuminated the royal residence, much like the sky is set aglow by the rising sun at dawn. At this moment, her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, overcome with emotion, embraced Sītā tightly with both arms. Weeping, she pressed her lips to Sītā’s head and spoke words heavy with sorrow and concern: “In this world, my child, women—even those cherished by their loved ones—rarely stand by their husbands when misfortune befalls them. Instead, they turn away, abandoning even their own. Such is the nature of women: after tasting happiness, at the first sign of hardship, they become unfaithful and withdraw their affection. Women are often accused of being untruthful, fickle, hard-hearted, and cruel, their minds inclined to evil, their affections fleeting. Neither family, nor deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even love—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 their highest sanctity. You must not disregard your husband, my son who now departs for the forest; whether he is rich or poor, he remains your god above all.” Sītā listened attentively to these words, understanding their righteousness and intent. Standing before Kausalyā, she joined her palms in reverence and replied, “Noble lady, I will do everything you have instructed me. I know well how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband, and I have heard these teachings too. Please do not try to persuade me otherwise, for I am incapable of straying from the path of righteousness—just as light cannot leave the moon. A lute cannot produce music 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, even a son—each gives 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 truly divine.” Hearing Sītā’s words, which touched her heart deeply, Kausalyā—pure in spirit—was overcome by a rush of tears, born of both sorrow and joy. Rāma, witnessing his revered mother thus, approached her with joined palms and spoke gently, “Mother, do not be sorrowful. Please look to my father. The time of my exile in the forest will soon pass, and you will see me here again, surrounded by friends. Fifteen years will pass for you as if in sleep.” Having shared his intentions with his mother, Rāma then turned to the many mothers gathered there—his father’s other wives—who were all grieved by the impending separation. With joined palms, he addressed them, “Whatever harshness may have occurred between us, even unknowingly, during our life together, I ask you all to forgive me. I entreat you.” At his words, a sound rose among the assembled women—a wailing like the cries of cranes—filling the house of Daśaratha with lamentation and sorrow. The once joyous halls now echoed with the thunder of grief, as if drums and cymbals had been struck in mourning; the royal home was plunged into misfortune and deep sorrow. Then, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, their hands joined in reverence, began to circumambulate King Daśaratha, performing the ritual of farewell, their hearts weighed down by grief. Having received the king’s permission, the righteous Rāma, together with Sītā—herself bewildered and sorrowful—bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, following his elder brother, bowed to Kausalyā as well, and then to his own mother, Sumitrā, touching her feet in respect. Sumitrā, weeping, blessed Lakṣmaṇa and kissed his head, offering words of guidance: “You are going to dwell in the forest, devoted to your loved ones. Be ever vigilant, my son, as you follow your brother Rāma. Whether in hardship or in prosperity, this is your path, O blameless one; for it is the dharma of the virtuous to obey their elders. Such conduct is fitting for our noble lineage—eternal are giving, sacrificial rites, and self-sacrifice in battle.” Having spoken thus, Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava dearly, urged Lakṣmaṇa on, saying again and again, “Go, go.” She advised him, “Regard Rāma as your father, me as your mother, and Janaka’s daughter as your own. Consider Ayodhyā as the forest, and go, my child, as you please.” At this point, Sumantra, the charioteer, approached the illustrious prince with joined palms. Humble and skilled in service, he addressed Rāma as Mātali might address Indra, “Ascend the chariot, O noble prince; may your journey be auspicious. I will swiftly take you wherever you command me to go.” Thus, with blessings, farewells, and the weight of sorrow and virtue alike, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa prepared to depart from Ayodhyā, setting forth on their journey into the forest.