With deep humility and gentle words, Rāma addressed the wives of King Daśaratha: “Whatever harshness has occurred between us, even unknowingly, through our life together, I ask you all to forgive me; I entreat you.” As Rāghava spoke thus, his words stirred a mournful sound among the assembled women, rising like the plaintive cry of cranes. The house of Daśaratha, once vibrant with joy, now resounded with the tumult of drums, cymbals, and thunderclouds—filled with lamentation and grief, plunged into misfortune, and overwhelmed by sorrow. Now, let the fortieth chapter be heard. Rāma, together with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, approached the king. With hands joined in reverence and hearts heavy with sorrow, they slowly circled Daśaratha, performing the ritual circumambulation. Having received the king’s permission, the righteous Rāghava, accompanied by Sītā—her mind bewildered by grief—bowed deeply to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, following his elder brother, bowed to Kausalyā and then, with devotion, grasped the feet of his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, weeping as her son bowed before her, blessed him, kissed the mighty-armed Lakṣmaṇa on the head, and spoke with love and wisdom: “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 be obedient to the elder. Such conduct befits our noble lineage—giving, sacrifice, and selfless valor in battle. These are eternal.” Having thus spoken, Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava dearly, encouraged Lakṣmaṇa again and again: “Go, go.” She counseled him further: “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 charioteer, approached Rāma with joined palms, humble and skilled in service, as Mātali would address Indra: “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince; may your journey be auspicious. I will swiftly take you wherever you command.” He reminded them, “For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest; the years of exile must now begin, as the queen has instructed.” Sītā, radiant with joy and resolve, adorned herself and ascended the chariot, shining with the brilliance of the sun. Counting the years of exile and for her devotion to her husband, Sītā’s father-in-law gave her clothing and ornaments. Likewise, weapons and armor were given to the two brothers, and a sturdy shield was placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa quickly mounted the golden chariot, which shone like fire. Seeing Sītā and the two brothers thus prepared, Sumantra urged the horses onward—swift as the wind. As Rāghava departed for the great forest and his long exile, a faintness seized the city and its people. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants raged and tossed their heads, horses neighed in distress, and the city resounded with a great tumult. Afflicted children and elders, all the people of the city, rushed toward Rāma, as those tormented by heat seek water. On every side, from beside and behind, the people followed him, their faces streaming with tears, calling out with 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 cried, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for it does not break as her son, radiant as a god, departs for the forest. And Vaidehī, Sītā, 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, ever gentle in speech and godlike in form. Great indeed is your wisdom, and great your fortune; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke thus, the people could not hold back their tears, following their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Meanwhile, King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and 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. The illustrious king, father of Kakutstha, appeared at that moment like the full moon eclipsed by a planet. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and unfathomable in soul, urged Sumantra, the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” Rāma said, “Go,” while the people pleaded, “Stop!”—but Sumantra, pressed by duty and the road, could do neither. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, the tears of the townspeople fell, soaking the dust of the earth and laying it low. The city, overcome with weeping, tears, and confusion, filled with cries of “Alas!”, became insensible at Rāghava’s departure, greatly afflicted. From the eyes of the women flowed tears of anguish, like water stirred by fish, moving the lotuses. And when the illustrious king saw the city, its people’s hearts fixed on Rāma, he fell to the ground in grief, like a tree cut at the root.