Then, with their weapons carried by two attendants, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa shone brilliantly as they walked, Sītā at their side, adorned with garlands and ornaments, her beauty radiant. As they made their way through the city, people climbed the palaces, mansions, and the tops of towers, eager to catch a glimpse of the illustrious Rāma as he passed by. The streets were so crowded that they could not be traversed, so the sorrowful citizens watched from their rooftops, their eyes fixed on Rāghava. Seeing Rāma on foot, accompanied only by his brother Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, the people’s hearts were overcome with grief, and they spoke many words among themselves. “He whom once a great fourfold army followed,” they said, “now walks with only Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā beside him. He, who knew the taste of sovereignty and was a source of great pleasures, would never speak falsely, for his reverence for dharma is unwavering.” They looked upon Sītā, who had been hidden even from the gaze of beings in the sky, and now was visible to all along the royal road. “Sītā, accustomed to fragrant ointments and red sandalwood,” they lamented, “will soon lose her color, exposed to the heat and cold of the forest.” Their sorrow deepened as they murmured, “Surely today, King Daśaratha speaks as if possessed by some spirit; for what king would banish his beloved son?” They questioned, “How could there be exile even for a son lacking virtues? What then of one whose conduct alone has won over the world? Compassion, kindness, learning, good character, self-restraint, and tranquility—these six virtues adorn Rāghava, the foremost among men.” Because of Rāma’s suffering, the people themselves were greatly distressed, like creatures of the waters suffering in summer from the drying up of ponds. All the world, they felt, was afflicted by the sorrow of this lord of the earth, just as a tree bearing flowers and fruit is harmed when its root is injured. “He is the root of mankind, the essence of righteousness, radiant in glory; the flowers, fruits, leaves, and branches are the people,” they said. Determined, the people declared, “Therefore, like Lakṣmaṇa, let us quickly follow Rāghava, together with our wives and relatives, wherever he goes. Abandoning gardens, fields, and homes, united in joy and sorrow, let us follow Rāma, the righteous one. Let the treasures stored in the sea, the ruined courtyards, the gathered wealth and grain, all lose their value completely. Let dust cover our empty homes, abandoned by the gods, overrun by mice and filled with their holes. Devoid of water and smoke, lacking proper cleaning, with lost taxes, sacrifices, mantras, offerings, and recitations—broken as if by a harsh season, with shattered vessels, abandoned by us—let Kaikeyī take possession of these houses.” “Let the forest become the city, wherever Rāghava goes; and the city we abandon become the forest. Let all the burrowing animals, the beasts and birds of the slopes, and even the elephants and lions, flee the forests in fear of our coming. Let them take up what we leave behind and abandon what we inhabit—the land of grass, meat, fruit, and the wild beasts and birds. Let Kaikeyī, with her sons and relatives, take possession; we all will live happily in the forest with Rāghava.” Hearing these many heartfelt words from the people, Rāghava remained steadfast, his mind unshaken. Then, the righteous Rāma, whose stride was like that of an intoxicated elephant, approached his mother’s palace, shining like the peak of Mount Kailāsa. Entering the royal residence, where disciplined heroes dwelled, he saw Sumantra standing nearby, looking dejected. Though not himself afflicted, Sumantra waited among the distressed people. Rāma, with a gentle smile, prepared to see his father, intent on fulfilling his father’s command according to dharma. But before proceeding, the great-souled son of Ikṣvāku paused for a moment, seeing Sumantra, who was there to announce his arrival to the king. With firm resolve, devoted to his father’s command and ready to enter the forest, Rāghava said to Sumantra, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Let the thirty-fourth chapter be heard. Then Rāma, lotus-eyed, dark, incomparable, and great, said to the charioteer, “Tell my father I am here.” Sent by Rāma, Sumantra quickly entered and saw King Daśaratha, whose senses were troubled by grief, sighing deeply. The king appeared like the sun reddened, like fire covered in ash, like a lake without water. Awakening the wise king, whose mind was greatly disturbed, Sumantra, with joined palms, spoke as the king grieved only for Rāma. First, Sumantra greeted the king with a wish for victory, then, with a fearful, faint, and gentle voice, he spoke: “Here stands your son, the tiger among men, at the door, having given wealth to the Brāhmaṇas and all his dependents. May you be well! Let Rāma, steadfast in truth, see you. Having taken leave of all his friends, he now wishes to see you. He will go to the great forest—see him, O lord of the earth, adorned with all royal virtues, like the sun with its rays.” To this, the king, truthful in speech, righteous, as deep as the ocean and pure as the sky, replied to Sumantra.