Sītā spoke with unwavering devotion, saying that while a father, brother, or son may give only in measure, the husband alone is the giver of the immeasurable. Who, she asked, would not honor the husband, the source of boundless gifts? Having embraced the highest virtue and the teachings of righteousness, Sītā declared to Kausalyā that she could never disregard her husband—for to a woman, the husband is divine. Hearing Sītā’s heartfelt words, Kausalyā, pure in spirit, was moved deeply. Tears welled in her eyes, born of both sorrow and joy at Sītā’s steadfastness. At that moment, Rāma, the supremely righteous son, saw his mother, honored among all women, and spoke to her with joined palms. “Mother, do not grieve. Look upon my father. The period of my stay in the forest will soon be over. Fifteen years will pass for you as if in sleep, and you will see me again, surrounded by friends.” After reassuring his mother, Rāma looked upon the hundreds of mothers gathered there. Afflicted by sorrow, he addressed them all with joined palms, 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 he spoke to the wives of the king, a sound arose among them like the cry of cranes—grief echoing through the house of Daśaratha. The palace, once filled with joy, now resounded with lamentation and sorrow, like thunderclouds and drums, plunged into misfortune. Then began the fortieth chapter. Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, hands joined in reverence, circled the king, performing the ritual circumambulation with heavy hearts. Having received the king’s permission, Rāma, righteous and sorrowful, together with Sītā, bowed to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa followed his brother, bowing first to Kausalyā and then to his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, weeping, spoke to Saumitri as he bowed, wishing him well, and kissed her mighty-armed son on the head. “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 spoken thus, Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava dearly, repeatedly urged Lakṣmaṇa, “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.” At that moment, Sumantra, the humble and skilled charioteer, addressed the descendant of Kakutstha 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; 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. Weapons and armor were given to the two brothers, along with a sturdy shield, and these were 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. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic, with enraged and maddened elephants and the clamor of neighing horses resounding in tumult. The city’s 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 in great lamentation. “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 praised Vaidehī, who, having fulfilled her duty, followed her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru. They honored 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.” Speaking thus, the people could not hold back their tears as they followed their beloved, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Then the king, surrounded by sorrowful women and himself stricken and faint of heart, came out from his house, determined to see his dear son one last time.