Thus, Sītā, the noble Vaidehī, adorned herself beautifully, her presence illuminating the house like the sky at dawn, aglow with the first rays of the rising sun. Her mother-in-law, Kausalyā, overcome with emotion, embraced Sītā with both arms, weeping softly as she lovingly smelled the crown of Maithilī’s head. Through her tears, Kausalyā spoke words heavy with sorrow and warning: “In this world, my child, even women who are cherished by their loved ones often do not stand by their husbands when misfortune befalls them; they turn away, unfaithful in times of need. Such is the nature of women: once they have tasted happiness, at the slightest sign of hardship, they abandon even those dearest to them. Women are often accused of being untruthful, fickle, hard-hearted, and cruel, their minds drawn to what is wrong, their affections fleeting. Neither family, nor noble deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even affection can hold the heart of a woman, for inconstancy is their nature. But for those women who are steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning, the husband alone is the highest sanctity. You, Sītā, must not disregard my son who now departs for the forest; whether he is wealthy or destitute, he remains your god above all others.” Hearing these words, imbued with righteousness and purpose, Sītā stood before her mother-in-law with joined palms and replied with gentle confidence, “Noble lady, I will do all that you instruct me. I know well how a wife must conduct herself toward her husband, and I have heard these teachings too. Please do not try to persuade me by improper means; I am incapable of turning from righteousness, just as light cannot be separated from the moon. A lute cannot be played 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 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 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.” Kausalyā, pure in spirit, was deeply moved by Sītā’s words. Tears welled in her eyes, born of both sorrow and joy. Seeing his mother thus, Rāma, the supremely righteous son, approached her with joined palms and spoke gently, “Mother, do not be sorrowful. Look to my father and be strong. The time I spend in the forest will pass swiftly, and I will soon return; fifteen years will seem but a moment, and you will see me again, surrounded by friends.” Having thus reassured his mother, Rāma turned to the many mothers assembled there. With joined palms, he addressed them all, his words grounded in righteousness: “If, through living together, I have ever caused any harshness, even unknowingly, I beg your forgiveness. I entreat you all.” At these heartfelt words, a sound arose among the women, like the plaintive cry of cranes, as Rāghava spoke to the king’s wives. The house of Daśaratha, once resounding with joy, now echoed with lamentation and grief, as if thunderclouds rumbled within—plunged into misfortune and deep sorrow. Now let the fortieth chapter be heard. Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, with hands joined in reverence, sorrowfully circled the king, performing the ritual circumambulation. After receiving the king’s permission, the righteous Rāghava, together with Sītā—her heart bewildered by grief—bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, following his brother, bowed to Kausalyā as well, and then grasped the feet of his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, weeping, spoke to Saumitri as he bowed, blessing him and kissing the mighty-armed Lakṣmaṇa on the head. “You are sent to dwell 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. This conduct is fitting for our noble lineage, eternal: giving, initiation in sacrifices, and self-sacrifice in battle.” Having thus spoken, Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava dearly, urged Lakṣmaṇa again and again, “Go, go.” She added, “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.” Then Sumantra, with joined palms, addressed the descendant of Kakutstha, his manner humble and skilled in deference, as Mātali might speak to Indra, “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince; may it be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever you command. Fourteen years you must dwell in the forest, as the queen has instructed—let those years begin now.” Sītā, radiant with joy, adorned herself and ascended the chariot, shining like the sun. Counting the years of exile, and in honor of her devotion, Sītā’s father-in-law gave her clothing and ornaments for the journey. Likewise, weapons and armor were given to the two brothers, along with a sturdy shield, all placed in the chariot. Then Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, resolute and swift, ascended the chariot together. It shone like fire and was adorned with gold, bearing the three noble souls as they departed from their beloved home, stepping into their exile with courage and devotion.