Rāma, steadfast in his resolve, gently assured those around him, “Once I have taken leave of my mother and comforted Sītā, I will go today itself to the great forest of the Dandakas.” He spoke further, urging, “Let Bharata rule the kingdom and serve his father as he should; so too must you act, for that is the eternal law.” But as these words left Rāma’s lips, his father was overwhelmed by grief. Unable to speak, stricken with sorrow, the king broke into loud weeping. Rāma, radiant and dutiful, bowed reverently at the feet of his senseless father and then at those of Kaikeyī, though she was unworthy of such respect, and he fell to the ground in humility. Circumambulating both his father and Kaikeyī, Rāma departed from the inner chambers and came upon his own friends. Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā’s beloved son, followed behind, his eyes brimming with tears and his heart burning with anger. Rāma, with unwavering composure, circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, walking away slowly, unable to turn his gaze from them. The loss of the kingdom did not diminish Rāma’s great splendor. He remained beloved by all, just as the waning moon does not lose its beauty. Even as he prepared to leave for the forest, abandoning the earth, no disturbance of mind could be seen in him; it was as though he were beyond the world itself. He dismissed the auspicious white parasol and the finely adorned fans, sent away his own people, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk. Bearing sorrow in his mind, restraining his senses, the self-controlled Rāma entered his mother’s house, though he brought unwelcome news. All the noble attendants of the illustrious, truthful Rāma could not discern any change in his face. The mighty-armed, self-controlled one did not abandon his usual composure, like the autumn moon radiant with its own light. Rāma, of great fame and righteous soul, honoring everyone with sweet words, entered his mother’s presence. Lakṣmaṇa, his brother of great prowess and equal virtue, followed, bearing his own sorrow. Entering the house, which was once filled with joy, Rāma saw that misfortune had come, yet he did not show any agitation, fearing for the distress of his friends. Let the twentieth sarga be heard. As Rāma, the tiger among men, departed with joined palms, a great cry of anguish arose from the women in the inner chambers. Commanded by his father and the palace, Rāma had always been their guide and refuge, but today he would depart. Just as he always behaved toward his mother Kausalyā, so too had Rāghava conducted himself toward all since birth. He never became angry, even when insulted, avoiding all causes for wrath; appeasing those who were angry, he would depart from there today. Alas, the king acted without wisdom among the living, for he abandoned Rāghava, who was the path for all beings. Thus, all the royal wives cried out, like cows bereft of their calves, wailing aloud for their husband. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard the dreadful sounds of anguish within the palace and collapsed upon his seat. Rāma, deeply troubled, breathed heavily like an elephant, yet, accompanied by his brother, entered his mother’s inner chambers, self-controlled. There he saw an elderly man, greatly honored, seated at the doorway, and many others standing nearby. Upon seeing Rāma, all those present greeted him, praising Rāghava, the best among victors, with acclamations of victory. Entering the first chamber, Rāma saw in the second chamber Brahmins, learned in the Vedas, elderly and honored by the king. After bowing to those elders, Rāma saw in the third chamber women, children, and elderly, all devoted to guarding the doorway. Those joyful women, having offered their blessings, entered the house and quickly informed Rāma’s mother of her beloved son’s arrival. At that time, Queen Kausalyā, who had spent the night in meditation, performed worship of Viṣṇu at dawn, wishing for her son’s welfare. Clad in silk garments, joyful and ever devoted to vows, she offered oblations to the fire with proper mantras, having completed auspicious rites. Then Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious inner chamber and saw her there, offering oblations to the sacred fire. He saw, prepared for divine rites, curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings. Raghunandana saw fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and full water pots. He saw her, clad in white silk, emaciated by the practice of vows, offering libations to the gods, radiant in beauty. Rāghava approached his mother, embraced her with his arms, and kissed her on the head. Kausalyā, steadfast and loving, addressed her son with words of affection and kindness, out of motherly love: “May you attain long life, fame, and righteousness befitting your lineage, as did the aged, virtuous, royal sages of great soul. Behold your father, the king, O Rāghava, steadfast in his word; today itself, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.