As Sītā spoke, her words were gentle yet firm, drawing vivid analogies: just as a lute cannot produce music without its strings, and a chariot cannot move without its wheels, so too, even a woman blessed with a hundred sons cannot find true happiness without her husband. She continued, explaining that while a father, brother, or son may give with measure, only the husband is the giver of the immeasurable—worthy of the highest honor. Sītā, steadfast in her devotion to dharma and righteousness, declared that she could never disregard her husband, for to a woman, he is divine. Kausalyā, hearing Sītā’s heartfelt words, felt a rush of emotion. Tears welled up in her eyes, born from both sorrow and joy, as she was deeply moved by Sītā’s devotion. Rāma, seeing his mother thus, approached her with joined palms. Honoring Kausalyā, the most revered among mothers, he spoke with compassion: “Mother, do not grieve. Look upon my father. The time I spend in the forest will soon pass. Fifteen years will slip by as if in sleep, and you will see me return, surrounded by friends.” Having spoken these words, Rāma turned to the many mothers assembled there, his heart full of reverence. With joined palms, he addressed them, saying, “If any harshness has occurred between us, even unknowingly, while living together, I beg your forgiveness.” As Rāma spoke, a sound arose among the women—a cry like that of cranes, echoing their sorrow. The house of Daśaratha, once filled with joy, now resounded with the noise of drums, cymbals, and thunderclouds, but all were steeped in lamentation, grief, and misfortune. Then, as the fortieth chapter unfolds, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, their hands joined in reverence, sorrowfully circled King Daśaratha, performing the ritual circumambulation. With the king’s permission, Rāma, righteous and grieving, together with Sītā, bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa followed, bowing first to Kausalyā and then to his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, weeping, blessed her mighty-armed son, kissing him on the head. She said, “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. It is the dharma of the virtuous to obey the elder.” Sumitrā reminded Lakṣmaṇa of their noble lineage, which was eternal, marked by generosity, sacrificial rites, and self-sacrifice in battle. Having spoken thus, she lovingly urged him, “Go, go.” She advised, “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 charioteer, humbly addressed 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.” He reminded them, “For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest, as the queen has instructed.” Sītā, radiant with joy, adorned herself and climbed onto the chariot, shining like the sun. Counting the years of exile, and for following her husband, Sītā’s father-in-law presented her with clothing and ornaments. Similarly, weapons and armor were given to the two brothers, along with a sturdy shield, and all were placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa quickly ascended the golden chariot, which gleamed like fire. Sumantra, seeing Sītā and the two brothers ready, yoked the horses—swift as the wind—and urged the chariot onward. As Rāma departed for the great forest, the city and its people were seized by faintness and sorrow. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion, with enraged elephants and neighing horses adding to the tumult. The children and elders, deeply afflicted, rushed toward Rāma, as those tormented by heat seek water. On every side, people followed him, their faces streaming with tears, calling out in lamentation. They pleaded with Sumantra, “Hold back the reins of the horses, 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, saying, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for she does not break as her son, equal to a god in radiance, goes to the forest.” They admired Sītā, noting, “Vaidehī, having fulfilled her duty, follows her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru.” They praised Lakṣmaṇa, “Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, you are truly blessed, for you will serve your brother, ever gentle in speech and godlike in form. Great indeed is your wisdom, and great this prosperity; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke, the people could not hold back their tears, for they followed their beloved Rāma—the joy of the Ikṣvāku line—into exile, their hearts filled with sorrow and devotion.