In the palace, a tense conversation unfolded. Kausalyā, the noble queen, spoke with deep concern about the nature of women, lamenting that, despite being honored by their loved ones, women often fail to support their husbands when misfortune befalls them. She reflected that, once happiness is lost, women are quick to turn away, abandoning even their own. She described women as fickle, untruthful, hard-hearted, and cruel, their minds inclined toward evil, their affections fleeting. No ties—be it family, deeds, learning, gifts, or affection—could bind their hearts, for their hearts are ever inconstant. Yet, Kausalyā acknowledged that for women who are steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning, the husband is the highest sanctity. She urged Sītā not to disregard her son, Rāma, who had departed to the forest; whether wealthy or destitute, he remained her god among all. Sītā listened intently, understanding the righteousness and purpose in Kausalyā’s words. Standing before her mother-in-law, Sītā respectfully joined her palms and spoke: “Noble lady, I will do everything you instruct me. I know, and have heard, how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband. 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, brother, and son may give in measure, but who would not honor the husband, the giver of the immeasurable? Having become devoted to the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I ever disregard my husband? For to a woman, the husband is divine.” Kausalyā was deeply moved by Sītā’s words, which touched her heart. Tears sprang forth—tears of both sorrow and joy. At that moment, Rāma, supremely righteous, saw his mother’s emotion and addressed her with joined palms: “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 thus, Rāma looked upon the hundreds of mothers gathered there. He addressed them, palms joined, his words grounded in righteousness: “Whatever harshness has occurred, even unknowingly, through living together, I ask you all to forgive me; I entreat you.” As Rāma spoke to the wives of the king, a sound arose among them, like the cry of cranes. The house of Daśaratha was plunged into lamentation and grief, resounding like drums and thunderclouds, exceedingly sorrowful and filled with misfortune. Let the fortieth chapter be heard. Then Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, hands joined in reverence, circled the king, sorrowful, performing the ritual circumambulation. Having received the king’s permission, the righteous Rāma, 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. She said, “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. This conduct is fitting for this noble lineage, eternal: giving, initiation in sacrifices, and self-sacrifice in battle.” Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava, repeatedly urged Lakṣmaṇa, “Go, go.” She counseled 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 moment, Sumantra, the humble and skilled charioteer, spoke to Rāma with joined palms, as Mātali would speak to Indra: “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince; may it be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever you command me. For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest; those years must be begun, as the queen has instructed.” Sītā, radiant with joy, adorned herself and ascended the chariot, shining like the sun. Counting the years of exile, and for following her husband, Sītā’s father-in-law gave her clothing and ornaments. Likewise, weapons and armor were given to the two brothers, along with a sturdy shield, placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa quickly ascended the chariot, which shone like fire and was adorned with gold. Seeing Sītā and the two brothers mounted, Sumantra urged the chariot onward, yoked with horses swift as the wind. As Rāghava departed for the great forest for a long exile, faintness seized the city and its people, overwhelmed by grief at the departure of their beloved.