Rāma, ever righteous and devoted, approached his mother with joined palms, honoring her with utmost respect. Seeing her among the mothers, he spoke gently, seeking to comfort her sorrow. “Mother,” he said, “do not grieve. You should look to my father. The time I spend in the forest will soon pass. Fifteen years will slip by for you as if in a dream, and you will see me here again, surrounded by friends.” Having spoken these words, Rāma turned his gaze to the many mothers gathered around him. Afflicted as they were by grief, he addressed them all with reverence, his hands joined, his words grounded in righteousness. “If ever, even unknowingly, any harshness has occurred between us while living together, I ask you all to forgive me—I entreat you.” At these words, a sound arose among the mothers, like the plaintive cry of cranes, echoing through the palace as Rāma spoke to the king’s wives. The house of Daśaratha, once filled with joy, now resounded with sorrow and lamentation, like thunderclouds and drums. Misfortune had plunged it into the depths of grief. Then, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, their hearts heavy, circled the king in reverence, performing the ritual circumambulation. With the king’s permission, Rāma, steadfast in dharma, bowed to his mother, Sītā by his side, bewildered by grief. Lakṣmaṇa followed his brother, bowing to Kausalyā, and then grasped the feet of his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, her heart overflowing with love, wept as she spoke to Saumitri, blessing him and kissing his mighty head. “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, O blameless one; it is the dharma of the virtuous to obey the elder. This conduct is fitting for our noble lineage—eternal: giving, initiation in sacrifices, and self-sacrifice in battle.” Having thus spoken, Sumitrā, who cherished Rāma, urged Lakṣmaṇa repeatedly, “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, humble and skilled in humility, spoke to Rāma as Mātali speaks 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 begin, 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 bestowed upon her clothing and ornaments. Weapons and armor were given to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with a sturdy shield, placed in the chariot. The two brothers, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, quickly mounted the chariot, which gleamed like fire, adorned with gold. Seeing Sītā and the brothers ready, Sumantra urged the chariot onward, yoked with horses swift as the wind. As Rāma departed for the great forest, the city and its people were seized by faintness. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic, with enraged elephants and neighing horses resounding in tumult. Children and elders alike, afflicted, rushed toward Rāma, as one tormented by heat seeks water. On every side, behind and beside, faces streaming with tears, the people followed him, calling out in 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 cried, “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. Vaidehī, having fulfilled her duty, follows her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru. Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, you are truly blessed, for you will serve your brother, gentle in speech and godlike in form. Great indeed is your wisdom and prosperity; this path you follow leads to heaven.” As they spoke, tears flowed unrestrained, the people following their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Then the king, surrounded by sorrowful women, himself stricken and faint of heart, came out from his house, saying, “I will see my dear son.” Ahead of him rose the great wailing of the women, like the cry of female elephants when their mighty leader is bound. At that moment, Daśaratha, illustrious king and father of Rāma, appeared like the full moon eclipsed by a planet. Rāma, glorious and unfathomable in soul, urged the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” And thus, the exile began, with sorrow and love marking each step.