Rāma, steadfast in his devotion to righteousness, gently addressed Sītā, saying, “Noble lady, do not seek to sway me by improper means. I am incapable of turning away from dharma, just as light cannot leave the moon.” He continued, “A lute cannot sing without its strings, nor can a chariot move without its wheels; even a woman blessed with a hundred sons finds no happiness without her husband. A father, a brother, a son—all give their love in measure, but who would not honor the husband, the giver of the immeasurable? Thus, devoted as I am to the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, how could I, noble lady, ever disregard my husband? For to a woman, her husband is divine.” As Sītā spoke these words, filled with deep feeling and unwavering devotion, Kausalyā, pure of heart, was overcome. Tears welled in her eyes, tears born from both sorrow and joy. Seeing his mother thus, her hands joined and honored among all mothers, Rāma, supremely righteous, spoke to her with gentle resolve: “Mother, do not grieve. You should look upon my father. The time I spend in the forest will soon pass, and before you know it, I will return to you, surrounded by friends. Fifteen years will pass for you as if in a dream, and you will see me here again.” Having thus reassured his mother, Rāma cast his gaze upon the many mothers gathered there. With hands joined in reverence, he addressed them, his words grounded in righteousness: “Whatever harshness may have occurred, even unknowingly, through living together, I beg your forgiveness. I entreat you all.” At these words, a sound arose among the assembled women, like the plaintive cry of cranes, as Rāghava spoke to the king’s wives. The house of Daśaratha, once filled with joy, now echoed with lamentation and grief, like thunderclouds and cymbals, plunged into misfortune and sorrow. Then, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, their hands joined in reverence, sorrowfully circled the king, performing the ritual circumambulation. With the king’s permission, the righteous Rāghava, together with Sītā—her heart bewildered by grief—bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, following his brother’s example, bowed to Kausalyā, and then to his own mother, Sumitrā, taking her feet in his hands. Sumitrā, weeping, blessed her mighty-armed son and kissed him on the head. “You are sent to dwell in the forest, devoted to your dear ones,” she said. “Do not be careless, my son, as you follow your brother Rāma. 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, marked by giving, sacrifice, and valor in battle.” Having thus spoken, Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava dearly, urged Lakṣmaṇa 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 that moment, Sumantra, the humble and skilled charioteer, spoke to the descendant of Kakutstha with joined palms, 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.” Sītā, radiant with joy and adorned with jewels, ascended the chariot, shining like the sun. Counting the years of exile, and for following her husband, her father-in-law gave her clothing and ornaments. Weapons and armor were likewise given to the two brothers, and a sturdy shield was placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, shining with resolve, quickly ascended the golden chariot, which glowed like fire. With Sītā and the two brothers seated, Sumantra urged the swift horses onward. As Rāghava departed for the great forest, a wave of faintness and sorrow swept through the city and its people. The city was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants raged, horses neighed, and a great tumult arose. The people, young and old, afflicted and desperate, rushed toward Rāma as one tormented by heat seeks water. On every side, the people followed—faces streaming with tears, calling out in great lamentation. “Hold back the reins, charioteer, go slowly, slowly; we wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” They marveled at Kausalyā’s strength, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for she does not break as her son, radiant as a god, goes to the forest.” They honored Sītā, saying, “Vaidehī, having fulfilled her duty, follows her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru.” And to Lakṣmaṇa they cried, “Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, you are truly blessed, for you will serve your brother, ever gentle in speech and godlike in form. Great is your wisdom, and great this fortune; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” Thus, with heavy hearts and tearful eyes, the people of Ayodhyā watched as Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa began their exile, upholding the highest dharma, and the city was left echoing with longing and sorrow.