In the heart of Ayodhya, Kausalyā, the beloved mother of Rāma, prepared for her son’s departure with a heavy heart. She gathered well-prepared, healing herbs and recited sacred mantras, performing a protective rite for Rāma. Despite the sorrow that enveloped her, she spoke with a voice that tried to convey delight, though her heart was burdened with sadness. Bowing before him, she lovingly smelled his head and embraced him tightly, her voice laced with both affection and a hint of pain. "Go, Rāma," she said, "may you attain your desires and travel happily. I long to see you return to Ayodhya, healthy and fulfilled, walking once more along the royal paths." With tears glistening in her eyes, she continued, "Freed from all sorrowful thoughts, my face will shine with joy when I see you back from the forest, like the full moon newly risen. I shall see you again, Rāma, seated on an auspicious throne, having fulfilled your father's command. May you return blessed and always fulfill the wishes of my daughter-in-law." She called upon the hosts of gods, sages, and celestial beings she had worshipped, praying that they would wish him well as he ventured into the forest. As she completed her blessings, her tears flowed freely. She circumambulated Rāma, embracing him again and again, her gaze lingering on him with a mother's love. Rāma, the illustrious prince, bowed deeply in reverence, pressing his mother's feet in a gesture of respect and gratitude, before he turned radiant with her blessings and made his way to Sītā's dwelling. Upon arriving at his home, Rāma, modest and shining with virtue, entered the splendidly adorned house filled with joyful people. Yet, in the midst of this celebration, Sītā, devoted to her husband and unaware of the unfolding events, noticed Rāma’s troubled demeanor. Rising with concern, she saw her beloved husband afflicted by sorrow, his senses disturbed by anxious thoughts. "Why do you appear so troubled today, my lord?" she inquired, her voice filled with worry. "Today is an auspicious day, declared by learned Brahmins; why does your mind seem agitated?" She observed how his charming face, usually vibrant and radiant, lacked its customary brightness, and how the festive atmosphere felt diminished, with no bards or heralds praising him, nor the ceremonial anointing that accompanied great occasions. Rāma, sensing her concern, finally spoke, revealing the truth that weighed heavily on his heart. "Sītā, my father, King Daśaratha, has sent me to the forest." He explained how, bound by his father's promises to Kaikeyī, he must now fulfill the decree that would see him dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest for fourteen years, while Bharata would be installed as the heir-apparent. As he shared this painful news, Sītā’s heart sank. Rāma continued, urging her not to speak of him in Bharata’s presence, for men of prosperity often feel discomfort at the praise of others. "You must honor Bharata, for he has been granted the everlasting heir-apparency by the king. As for me, I must uphold my promise to my teacher and set out for the forest today. Be steadfast, my resolute one." He implored her to devote herself to vows and fasting during his absence, to rise early, worship the gods, and bow to his father, Daśaratha, the lord of the people. With those words, Rāma prepared to embark on his journey, leaving behind the comforts of home for the solitude of the forest, while Sītā, filled with love and devotion, resolved to uphold her duties with unwavering strength.