Asamañja, the son of King Sagara, developed a troubling habit as a child. While playing on the roads of Ayodhyā, he would seize other children and, to the horror of all, throw them into the waters of the Sarayū river, finding delight in this cruel mischief. Witnessing these acts, the townspeople became incensed and approached the king, declaring, “O increaser of the realm, choose between Asamañja and us!” King Sagara, perplexed, asked them, “Why do you fear him?” When questioned, the citizens replied, “While playing, he throws our young children—whose minds are still unsteady—into the Sarayū out of sheer folly, and takes great pleasure in it.” Hearing their words, the king, though the child was his own and had done them no further harm, chose to please his people. He swiftly exiled Asamañja, placing him, his wife, and attendants upon a chariot, commanding that he live in banishment for the rest of his days. Asamañja, taking a spade and basket, wandered through the mountain wilderness, roaming in all directions like one burdened by guilt for a wicked deed. Thus, King Sagara, upholder of righteousness, did not hesitate to banish his own son for the sake of his people. In light of this, the citizens questioned: “What sin has Rāma committed that he should be obstructed in this way? We see no fault in Rāghava; for him, descent into hell is as unlikely as a stain on the moon.” They turned to the queen, saying, “But, O Queen, if you see any fault in Rāghava, speak it truly today; then Rāma shall be exiled. For to abandon one who is blameless and devoted to the righteous path would destroy even Indra’s radiance, for it is opposed to dharma. Enough, O Queen, with ruining Rāma’s fortune; you must also guard yourself against public reproach, O auspicious one.” Hearing these words from Siddhārtha, the king, his voice weary and his heart overcome by grief, addressed Kaikeyī: “You do not wish to heed these words, which are for your own good, though they may sound harsh. You do not know what is beneficial for either of us. Having taken to a cruel path, your conduct has strayed from the way of the good. Today I will follow Rāma, renouncing the kingdom, comfort, and wealth; you and Bharata, with all the king’s people, may enjoy the kingdom as you wish for a long time.” Now, as the next chapter of the tale unfolds, Rāma, hearing the words of the chief minister, approached his father Daśaratha with humility and respect. “O King,” he said, “since I have renounced pleasures and will live in the forest on forest fare, what need is there for an escort, when I have abandoned all attachments? For one who, after giving away an excellent elephant, still clings to its enclosure, what use is the bond of a rope to him, when he has already let go of the noble elephant? So, O best of the virtuous, what use have I for an army, O lord of the world? I permit all to return; let them bring me only garments of bark. And bring both the spade and basket as I go, for I must dwell in the forest for fourteen years.” Kaikeyī herself, unashamed before the gathered assembly, brought the garments of bark to Rāghava and said, “Put these on.” That tiger among men, accepting the ascetic’s attire from her, set aside his fine cloth and donned the bark garments. Lakṣmaṇa, too, left aside his splendid garments and took up the ascetic’s covering before his father. Sītā, clad in silk, looked upon the bark garment with fear, like a frightened doe seeing a snare. The daughter of Janaka, possessing auspicious marks, took the kusa-grass garment from Kaikeyī with downcast eyes, deeply troubled and ashamed. Tears filled her eyes as she, devoted to righteousness, spoke to her husband, who was like a king among Gandharvas: “How do the sages dwelling in the forest wear such bark garments?” Unskilled in such matters, Sītā repeatedly fainted. Taking one piece of bark in her hand, she placed it around her neck and stood there, unpracticed and embarrassed. Seeing her thus, Rāma, foremost among the righteous, quickly came to her and himself tied the bark garment over Sītā’s silk attire. The women of the inner apartments, witnessing Rāma tie the garment on Sītā, shed tears. Dependent on him, they pleaded, “Child, this noble lady is not meant for such a forest dwelling. By the command of your father you go to the lonely forest; let our seeing her be fulfilled, O Lord. Go to the forest, dear child, with Lakṣmaṇa as your companion; this blessed lady is not fit to dwell in the forest like an ascetic. Grant us this request, son: let Sītā, the radiant one, remain here; you, ever devoted to righteousness, do not wish to stay now yourself.” Hearing their words, Rāma tied the bark garment on Sītā, who was equal to him in character. When she had taken the garment, the venerable royal priest, his eyes filled with tears, restrained Sītā and spoke to Kaikeyī: “You have gone too far, evil-minded Kaikeyī, disgrace of your lineage; having deceived the king, you do not abide by what is right. Sītā, lacking in proper conduct, must not go to the forest, O Queen; Sītā will perform her proper duties for Rāma here. For all who are married, their wives are their very selves; considering her as his own self, Rāma will protect the earth.” Thus unfolded this poignant scene in Ayodhyā, as the royal family and its faithful subjects grappled with the demands of duty, love, and righteousness.