In Ayodhyā, no one—whether a twice-born friend, a loyal servant, or even the poorest beggar—was left without satisfaction. Gifts and honors were given to all, each according to their due, so that everyone’s heart was full. Now, listen to the next part of this sacred tale from the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. After bestowing abundant wealth upon the brāhmaṇas, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, both scions of the Raghu dynasty, prepared to depart with Sītā, Vaidehī herself, to see their father. The two brothers, their weapons borne by attendants, walked beside Sītā, who was adorned with beautiful garlands and shining ornaments. Together, they radiated a brilliant splendor. As they made their way through the city, people climbed atop palaces, mansions, and the highest towers, eager to catch a glimpse of the illustrious Rāma as he passed. The streets were so crowded with sorrowful citizens that it was impossible to move through them; instead, the people watched from the rooftops, their eyes fixed on Rāghava. Seeing Rāma walking on foot, accompanied only by his brother and Sītā, the people’s hearts grew heavy with grief, and they murmured among themselves. “Once, a mighty fourfold army would follow him, but now, only Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā are by his side. He who has tasted sovereignty and been a source of joy for all, who would never speak falsely and reveres dharma above all, now walks in exile.” They looked upon Sītā and whispered, “She who was once hidden even from the gaze of beings who move in the sky is now visible to all upon the royal road. Sītā, who was accustomed to fragrant ointments and red sandalwood, will soon lose her luster, exposed to the heat and cold of the seasons.” Their sorrow deepened as they reflected, “Surely today, King Daśaratha is not himself—how else could a loving father banish such a son? How can there be exile even for a son without virtue? But Rāma’s conduct alone has won over the world!” They remembered Rāma’s six shining virtues: compassion, kindness, learning, good character, self-restraint, and tranquility. “These adorn Rāghava, the very best among men,” they said, their voices trembling. “His suffering afflicts us all, just as creatures of the water suffer when ponds dry up in summer. The whole world is in pain because this lord of men is in pain—just as a tree is harmed when its root is injured, so too are we harmed by Rāma’s affliction. He is the root of all mankind, the very essence of righteousness, radiant in glory; we are but the flowers, fruits, leaves, and branches.” Moved by these feelings, the people declared, “Let us, like Lakṣmaṇa, follow Rāghava wherever he goes, bringing our wives and our families. Let us abandon our gardens, our fields, and our homes, united in both joy and sorrow, to follow Rāma, the righteous one. Let all the treasures stored in the sea, the wealth, the grain, the courtyards—let them all lose their value. Let our homes be covered in dust, abandoned by the gods, overrun by mice. Let there be no water, no sacred smoke, no cleaning, no taxes, no sacrifices, no mantras, no offerings, no recitations. Let our houses be broken, the vessels shattered, abandoned by us—let Kaikeyī take possession of them. Wherever Rāghava goes, let that place become our city, and let the city we leave behind become a forest. Let the animals and birds of the woods flee from us, and let them take up what we leave behind, abandoning what we inhabit. Let Kaikeyī, with her sons and kin, rule over what is left; we shall live happily in the forest with Rāghava.” Rāma heard all these words, spoken with such devotion by the people, but his resolve did not waver. With a stride as majestic as an intoxicated elephant, he approached his mother’s palace, shining like the peak of Mount Kailāsa. Entering the royal residence, where disciplined heroes dwelled, he saw Sumantra, the charioteer, standing nearby, his face downcast. Though Rāma himself was not afflicted, he paused for a moment amid the grieving people. With a gentle smile, he turned to Sumantra, for he wished to carry out his father’s command according to duty. As he was about to go to the sorrowful king, Rāma, the great-souled son of Ikṣvāku, stopped and addressed Sumantra, who stood ready to announce his arrival. Out of devotion to his father’s word, his resolve firm to enter the forest, Rāghava said, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Now, hear the next chapter. Rāma, dark and incomparable, with eyes like lotuses, spoke to the charioteer, “Tell my father I am here.” Sent by Rāma, Sumantra quickly entered the royal chamber and saw the king, Daśaratha, whose senses were troubled by grief, sighing deeply. The lord of the earth appeared like the sun shrouded in red, like a fire covered in ash, like a lake drained of water. Gently awakening the wise but sorrowful king, Sumantra, with palms joined, spoke as the king grieved only for Rāma. First, he offered the king a blessing of victory, then, with a fearful, faint, and gentle voice, he said, “Here stands your son, the tiger among men, at the door, having given wealth to the Brāhmaṇas and all his dependents.