Once unseen even by those who dwell in the skies, Sītā, whose beauty was once hidden from all but her beloved, now walked openly along the royal road, visible to every citizen. Those who watched her remembered how she had been accustomed to fragrant ointments and the cooling touch of red sandalwood. But now, they lamented that Sītā would soon lose her radiant color, exposed to the harsh heat and cold of the changing seasons. The people could not understand King Daśaratha’s actions. They wondered if some strange spirit had seized him, for how could a loving father banish his own son? Even if the son were lacking in virtue, exile would seem harsh—what then for Rāma, whose conduct had won the hearts of the entire world? Rāghava, the foremost among men, was adorned with six shining virtues: compassion, kindness, learning, good character, self-restraint, and tranquility. Because of his affliction, the people of Ayodhyā felt deeply distressed, like creatures suffering in the summer when their ponds dry up. The pain of their lord’s suffering touched all the world, just as a tree is harmed when its root is injured, no matter how many flowers and fruits it bears. Rāma was the very root of mankind, the essence of righteousness, radiant with glory. The people—like flowers, fruits, leaves, and branches—derived their life from him. So, just as Lakṣmaṇa had resolved to follow Rāma, the people declared they would quickly follow Rāghava too, along with their wives and families, wherever he went. They resolved to abandon their gardens, fields, and homes, united in both joy and sorrow, and follow Rāma, the righteous one. All the treasures stored in the sea, the ruined courtyards, the gathered wealth and grain—they declared these would lose their value completely. Their homes would be covered in dust, abandoned by the gods, overrun by mice, and filled with holes. Without water or smoke, neglected, with lost taxes, sacrifices, mantras, offerings, and recitations, their houses would be broken as if by a harsh season, with shattered vessels, abandoned by the people—let Kaikeyī take possession of these, they said. Let the forest become the city, wherever Rāghava goes; and let the city, abandoned by its people, become like a forest. Let all the burrowing animals, the beasts and birds of the slopes, and even elephants and lions, flee the forests in fear of this great migration. Let them take up what the people leave behind, and abandon what the people inhabit—the land of grass, meat, fruit, and wild beasts and birds. Let Kaikeyī, with her sons and relatives, take possession of the city; the people would live happily in the forest with Rāghava. These words, spoken by many, reached Rāma, but his mind remained unshaken. Then, that righteous one, whose stride was like an intoxicated elephant, approached his mother’s palace, shining like the peak of Mount Kailāsa. Entering the royal residence, where disciplined heroes dwelled, Rāma saw Sumantra standing nearby, looking dejected. Though Rāma himself was not afflicted, he waited for the people who were distressed. Smiling gently, he went to see his father, intent on fulfilling his father’s command with dutiful resolve. But before entering, the great-souled son of Ikṣvāku paused a moment, seeing Sumantra, who stood ready to announce him to the king. Out of devotion to his father’s command, having firmly resolved to enter the forest, Rāma said to Sumantra, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Let the next chapter be heard. Rāma, lotus-eyed, dark, incomparable, and great, spoke to the charioteer, “Tell my father I am here.” Sent by Rāma, Sumantra quickly entered and saw King Daśaratha. The king’s senses were troubled by grief; he sighed deeply. Sumantra beheld the lord of the earth like the sun reddened, like fire covered in ash, like a lake without water. Awakening the king, who was wise but whose mind was greatly disturbed, Sumantra, with joined palms, spoke as the king grieved only for Rāma. First, he greeted the king with a wish for 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. 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.” The king, truthful in speech, righteous, and as deep as the ocean, pure as the sky, replied, “Sumantra, bring here all my wives, whoever are present. Surrounded by them all, I wish to see Rāghava.” Passing through the inner chambers, Sumantra spoke to the women, “The noble king summons you; go there without delay.” Thus addressed, all the women began to proceed to the palace, having received their lord’s order. There, three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, having taken vows, gently surrounded Kausalya and departed. When the wives had arrived, the king, observing them, spoke to the charioteer, “Sumantra, bring my son to me.” The charioteer, taking Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and also Maithili (Sītā), quickly went towards the presence of the lord of the earth, King Daśaratha.