As the news of Rāma’s exile spread, the hearts of Ayodhyā’s people grew heavy, and their voices turned to sorrowful protest. They worried for Sītā, who was used to fragrant ointments and red sandalwood. They lamented that, exposed to the harshness of the seasons, she would soon lose her radiant color under the sun and cold. Murmurs swept through the city: “Surely today, King Daśaratha speaks as if possessed by some spirit—for what king would banish his beloved son?” The people could not comprehend such an act. “How could there be exile even for a son lacking virtues? What then of one whose conduct alone has won over the world?” they asked one another. They recounted Rāghava’s six shining virtues: compassion, kindness, learning, good character, self-restraint, and tranquility. These adorned him, making him the foremost among men. Because of Rāma’s affliction, the people themselves felt deeply distressed, just as creatures of the water suffer when their ponds dry up in the heat of summer. The pain that struck their lord seemed to afflict the whole world, much like a flowering and fruiting tree is harmed when its root is injured. For Rāma was indeed the root of mankind, the very essence of righteousness, radiant in glory, while all others—the people—were like the tree’s flowers, fruits, leaves, and branches. Moved by this bond, the people resolved, “Let us, like Lakṣmaṇa, quickly follow Rāghava, together with our wives and relatives, wherever he goes. Let us abandon our gardens, fields, and homes, united in joy and sorrow, and follow Rāma, the righteous one.” They declared that all the treasures hidden in the sea, the ruined courtyards, and the amassed wealth and grain would lose their value completely without him. Their city, they said, would be covered in dust, abandoned by the gods, overrun by darting mice and riddled with their holes. There would be no water or sacred smoke, no proper cleaning, and lost would be the taxes, sacrifices, mantras, offerings, and recitations. Broken as if by a harsh season, with shattered vessels and deserted by its people—let Kaikeyī take possession of such houses, they said. “Wherever Rāghava goes, let that forest become our city, and let this city, abandoned by us, become the forest. Let all the burrowing animals, the beasts and birds of the slopes, even 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 creatures. Let Kaikeyī, with her sons and relatives, take possession here; we will all live happily in the forest with Rāghava.” Rāma heard these many words, spoken with devotion and sorrow by the people of Ayodhyā, but his mind remained steady, unshaken by their pleas. Then, that righteous one, whose stride was as majestic as an intoxicated elephant, made his way toward his mother’s palace, shining like the peak of Mount Kailāsa. Entering the royal residence, the home of disciplined heroes, he saw Sumantra, the charioteer, standing nearby, looking dejected. Though himself not afflicted, Sumantra waited among the people, who were distressed. Rāma, smiling gently, approached, intent on carrying out his father’s command as duty required. Yet, before going to the sorrowful king, the great-souled son of Ikṣvāku paused for a moment, seeing Sumantra, who was there to announce his arrival. Out of devotion to his father’s command, and having firmly resolved to enter the forest, Rāghava said to Sumantra, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Thus, the thirty-fourth chapter begins. Rāma—lotus-eyed, dark, incomparable, and great—said to the charioteer, “Tell my father I am here.” At Rāma’s bidding, Sumantra quickly entered and saw King Daśaratha, whose senses were troubled by grief, sighing deeply. The lord of the earth appeared like the sun reddened, like fire covered in ash, or a lake without water. Sumantra gently awakened the king, wise but greatly disturbed in mind, as the king grieved only for Rāma. With joined palms, the charioteer first greeted the king with wishes for victory, then, with a fearful, faint, and gentle voice, 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.” 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 relayed the king’s command 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. Three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, having taken vows, gently surrounded Kausalyā and departed. When the wives had arrived, the king, observing them, spoke to the charioteer, “Sumantra, bring my son to me.” Sumantra then brought Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and also Maithilī, Sītā, and they quickly went to the presence of the lord of the earth. Seeing his son approach with joined palms, King Daśaratha, distressed and surrounded by his wives, rose swiftly from his seat.