Rāghava, the scion of the Raghu line, shone resplendent among men, adorned with six noble virtues: compassion, kindness, learning, good character, self-restraint, and tranquility. These qualities made him the very heart of his people, and so, when sorrow befell him, it deeply distressed all who dwelled in Ayodhyā. The people felt as though they were creatures of the waters, suffering in the heat of summer as their ponds dried up, left exposed and vulnerable. The world itself seemed afflicted by Rāma’s suffering, just as a tree, rich with flowers and fruit, is harmed when its roots are wounded. In truth, Rāma was the root of mankind, the very essence of righteousness, radiant in glory, while the rest of the people were like the flowers, fruits, leaves, and branches that depended on him for life and strength. Recognizing this, the citizens resolved to follow Rāghava, just as Lakṣmaṇa had done, determined to accompany him with their wives and relatives wherever he might go. With a spirit of unity, they declared that they would abandon their gardens, fields, and homes, sharing both joy and sorrow, and follow Rāma, the embodiment of dharma. They cared nothing for treasures stored in the sea, nor for the wealth and grain they had gathered. All these would lose their value entirely, left behind to decay. Their homes, once sacred and lively, would be covered in dust, deserted by the gods, overrun by darting mice and riddled with their holes. Without water or the sacred smoke of offerings, neglected and unclean, their houses would lose their taxes, their sacrifices, their mantras, their offerings, and their recitations. The city would be as if broken by a harsh season, its vessels shattered, abandoned by its people. Let Kaikeyī, they said, take possession of these empty homes. For them, the forest would become the city wherever Rāghava dwelled, and the city they left behind would become a wilderness. All the burrowing creatures, the beasts and birds of the slopes, even the elephants and lions, would flee the forests in fear of the great multitude following Rāma. The animals would take what the people left behind and abandon the places the people now inhabited, allowing the land of grass, meat, fruit, and wild creatures to pass into new hands. They proclaimed that Kaikeyī, along with her sons and relatives, could have the city, but they themselves would live happily in the forest with Rāghava. Thus, many voices spoke these words in devotion and sorrow, but Rāma’s mind remained unshaken by their pleas. Rāma, steadfast and righteous, whose gait was as majestic as 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, the charioteer, standing nearby, his face clouded with worry. Though Rāma himself was not afflicted, he waited there among the grieving people, and with a gentle smile, he proceeded to see his father, intent on fulfilling the king’s command according to dharma. But before entering, the great-souled son of Ikṣvāku paused, seeing Sumantra waiting to announce him. Out of devotion to his father’s will, and firm in his resolve to enter the forest, Rāma spoke to Sumantra, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Rāma, the lotus-eyed, dark and incomparable among men, said to the charioteer, “Tell my father I am here.” At his behest, Sumantra quickly entered the inner chambers and found the king, whose senses were clouded by grief, sighing deeply. The lord of the earth appeared as the sun reddened at dusk, as fire covered in ash, or a lake bereft of water. Gently awakening the wise but troubled king, Sumantra, with joined palms, spoke as Daśaratha grieved for Rāma alone. First, the charioteer offered words of victory to the king, then, in 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, righteous and truthful, as deep as the ocean and pure as the sky, replied, “Sumantra, bring here all my wives who are present. Surrounded by them, I wish to see Rāghava.” Sumantra passed through the inner chambers and said to the royal women, “The noble king summons you; go without delay.” Thus addressed, all the women began to proceed to the palace, having received their lord’s command. Three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, observing their vows, gently surrounded Kausalyā and made their way to the king. When the women had assembled, the king, observing them, instructed Sumantra, “Bring my son to me.” Sumantra then brought Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Maithilī (Sītā) swiftly to the presence of the lord of the earth. As Rāma approached with joined palms, the king, distressed and surrounded by women, rose swiftly from his seat. Overcome by grief at the sight of his beloved son, Daśaratha rushed toward Rāma, but his sorrow was so great that he collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa quickly approached the stricken king, who lay senseless with grief. In that moment, a tumult of thousands of women arose in the royal palace, their cries of “Alas, Rāma!” mingling with the tinkling of ornaments, filling the halls with sorrow and lamentation.