With tears streaming down her face, Kausalyā, the revered mother-in-law, drew Sītā into a heartfelt embrace, holding her close with both arms. In her sorrow, she gently pressed her lips to Sītā’s head and began to speak, her voice trembling with emotion. “In this world, my child,” she said, “women, though cherished and honored by their loved ones, often do not stand by husbands who have fallen from fortune; they prove unfaithful. Such is the nature of women: after tasting happiness, even the smallest misfortune can cause them to turn away, abandoning even those dearest to them. Women are ever untruthful, fickle, hard-hearted, and cruel. Their minds are drawn to what is wrong, and their affections last only a moment. Neither noble family, nor good deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even affection—nothing truly binds their hearts, for their hearts are inconstant. “Yet, there are women who are steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning—for them, the husband alone is the highest sanctity. You must not disregard your husband, my son, who now departs to the forest; whether he is surrounded by wealth or stripped of all, he remains your god above all others.” Hearing these words, so full of righteousness and intent, Sītā stood before her mother-in-law with hands joined in reverence. With grace and humility, she replied, “Noble lady, I shall do everything you instruct me. I know well how a wife must conduct herself towards her husband, for I have both learned and heard it. Please do not try to persuade me by improper means; I am incapable of straying from righteousness, just as light cannot be separated from the moon. A lute cannot sing without strings, nor can a chariot move without wheels; even a woman blessed with a hundred sons cannot find joy without her husband. A father, a brother, and a son each give in measure, but the husband is the giver of the immeasurable—who would not honor him? Having embraced the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I ever disregard my husband? For to a woman, the husband is divine.” Kausalyā, her heart deeply moved by Sītā’s words, felt tears well up once more—this time tears born of both sorrow and joy. As she stood there, honored among mothers, Rāma, the embodiment of righteousness, approached her with joined palms and spoke with gentle resolve. “Mother, do not be sorrowful. Look to my father, and take heart. The time of my stay in the forest will pass swiftly, as if in a dream. Soon, fifteen years will have gone by, and you shall see me here again, surrounded by friends.” Having spoken thus to his mother, Rāma turned to the many mothers gathered there—wives of King Daśaratha. With hands folded in respect, he addressed them, his words grounded in righteousness. “If ever, knowingly or unknowingly, I have caused you pain while living together, I beg your forgiveness. I entreat you all.” As Rāma spoke these words, a sound arose among the women, a plaintive cry like that of cranes, their hearts heavy with grief. The house of Daśaratha, once resounding with joy, now echoed with the thunder of lamentation and sorrow, plunged into misfortune and deep sadness. Then, as the time of departure arrived, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, with hands joined in reverence, slowly circled the king in the traditional ritual of farewell, their hearts weighed down with sorrow. With the king’s permission granted, Rāma, righteous and steadfast, together with Sītā—her mind clouded by grief—bowed before his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, following his brother’s example, bowed to Kausalyā as well, and then, with great devotion, touched the feet of his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, weeping as her son bowed before her, blessed the mighty-armed Lakṣmaṇa and kissed him tenderly on the head. “You are going to dwell in the forest, devoted to your dear ones. Do not be careless, my son, as you follow your brother Rāma. Whether in hardship or in fortune, this is your path, O blameless one; it is the dharma of the virtuous to obey the elder. This conduct is fitting for our noble lineage, eternal as it is: giving, sacrifice, and selfless valor in battle.” Having thus spoken to Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā, who loved Rāma dearly, urged her son again and again, “Go, go.” She continued, “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 moment, Sumantra, the humble and wise charioteer, approached Rāma with joined palms, speaking with gentle deference as Mātali would speak to Indra. “Ascend the chariot, illustrious prince. May this journey be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever you command me to go. For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest; let those years begin now, as the queen has decreed.” Sītā, radiant and joyful in her devotion, adorned herself and ascended the chariot, shining like the sun. Counting the years of exile before her, and in honor of her steadfastness, her father-in-law provided her with clothing and ornaments. Likewise, weapons and armor were given to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, and a sturdy shield was placed in the chariot. Then, the two brothers, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, swiftly mounted the chariot, which gleamed like fire and was adorned with gold. Seeing Sītā and the brothers prepared for their journey, Sumantra urged the chariot forward, the horses flying as swift as the wind, carrying the noble exiles into the unknown, while the hearts of those left behind ached with love and sorrow.