Lakṣmaṇa, Sumitrā’s beloved son, followed behind Rāma, his eyes brimming with tears and burning with anger. Rāma, meanwhile, walked slowly away, having circumambulated the vessels prepared for his consecration, his gaze lingering on them and refusing to turn aside. Though the kingdom was lost to him, Rāma’s great splendor remained undiminished; all loved him dearly, just as the beauty of the moon is not lessened when its cool rays wane. Even as he resolved to leave for the forest and abandon the earthly joys of his birthright, there was no sign of inner turmoil in him—he seemed untouched by worldly concerns. With quiet dignity, Rāma dismissed the auspicious white parasol and the finely adorned fans, sending away his own people, the chariot, the citizens, and the townsfolk. Bearing sorrow deep within and restraining his senses, the self-controlled prince entered his mother’s house, though he carried with him news she would not wish to hear. The noble attendants of illustrious, truthful Rāma could not discern any change in his expression. The mighty-armed and self-controlled Rāma maintained his composure, radiant like the autumn moon shining with its own light. With gentle words and honor for all, Rāma—famed for righteousness—entered his mother’s presence. Lakṣmaṇa, his brother of great prowess and equal virtue, followed, carrying his own sorrow. Entering the house, Rāma, though misfortune had come upon him, showed no agitation, mindful of the distress it might cause his friends. 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 now he would leave. Just as he had always treated his mother Kausalyā with devotion, so too had Rāghava conducted himself toward all the royal wives since birth. He never grew angry, even when insulted; he avoided all causes for wrath, appeased those who were angry, and now, he would depart from them. The royal wives cried out in sorrow, like cows bereft of their calves, and wailed aloud for their husband. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard these dreadful sounds of anguish within the palace and collapsed upon his seat. Rāma, deeply troubled, breathed heavily like an elephant, but, accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa, entered his mother’s inner chambers with self-control. Within the chamber, Rāma saw an elderly man, greatly honored, seated at the doorway, and many others standing nearby. Upon seeing him, all those present greeted Rāma, praising him as 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 these elders, Rāma saw in the third chamber women, children, and elderly, all devoted to guarding the doorway. The 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, was performing 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. Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious inner chamber and saw her offering oblations to the sacred fire. There, prepared for divine rites, were 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 his mother, 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, moved by motherly love. She blessed him: “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.” Having accepted the seat offered and being invited to dine, Rāghava, with hands joined, spoke a little to his mother. Naturally humble and bowed with respect, he then began to take leave, preparing to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He said, “O Queen, surely you do not know the great danger that has come; this is for your sorrow, and for that of Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa as well. I will go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I for this seat? The time suited for the seat of the forest has now come upon me. For fourteen years I shall dwell in the lonely forest, living on roots, fruits, and bulbs, giving up meat like a sage.