Kaikeyī, in her agitation, spoke harsh words about the nature of women, saying that neither family, nor deeds, nor learning, nor gifts, nor even affection could bind their hearts, for the hearts of women are inconstant. Yet she acknowledged that for women who are steadfast in virtue, truth, and learning, the husband alone is their highest sanctity. She urged Kausalyā not to disregard her son, Rāma, who had departed to the forest; whether he was wealthy or destitute, he remained her god among all. Hearing these words, which were imbued with righteousness and purpose, Sītā, standing before her mother-in-law, joined her palms in reverence and spoke with humility: “Noble lady, I will do everything that you instruct me. I know, and have heard, how a wife should conduct herself toward her husband. You should 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 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? Thus, having become devoted to the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I, noble lady, ever disregard my husband? For to a woman, the husband is divine.” Hearing Sītā’s words, which touched her heart, Kausalyā, pure in spirit, was overcome by emotion and shed tears born of both sorrow and joy. Seeing his mother thus moved, Rāma, supremely righteous, 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 these words to his mother, Rāma looked upon the hundreds of mothers gathered there. With hands folded in humility, he addressed the wives of Daśaratha, saying, “Whatever harshness has occurred, even unknowingly, through living together, I ask you all to forgive me; I entreat you.” As Rāma spoke thus, a sound arose among them, like the cry of cranes, filled with grief. The house of Daśaratha, once resounding with joy, now echoed with the tumult of lamentation and sorrow, plunged into misfortune. Then Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, with hands joined in reverence, circled the king in sorrow, performing the ritual of circumambulation. Having received the king’s permission, the righteous Rāghava, together with Sītā, bewildered by grief, bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, following his brother, bowed to Kausalyā and then to his own mother, Sumitrā. His mother, weeping, spoke to Saumitri as he bowed, wishing him well and kissing him 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.” Having thus spoken to Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava, repeatedly urged him, “Go, go.” She instructed 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.” Then Sumantra, the royal charioteer, with joined palms, spoke humbly to Rāma, “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince; may it be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever you command. For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest; those years must begin, as the queen has instructed.” Sītā, radiant with joy and adorned in fine garments, 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, and these, along with a sturdy shield, were placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa quickly ascended the chariot, which gleamed 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 and a long exile, faintness seized the city and its people. Ayodhyā, thrown into confusion and panic, resounded with the tumult of enraged and maddened elephants and the clamor of neighing horses. The city, with its children and elders greatly afflicted, rushed toward Rāma, as one tormented by heat seeks water. On every side, from beside and behind, all of them, faces filled with tears, followed him, calling out with great lamentation.