The people of Ayodhyā, united in their devotion to Rāma, resolved to abandon their gardens, fields, and homes, choosing instead to follow the righteous prince wherever he went. Their joy and sorrow would be shared with him, for nothing in the city held value without Rāma. The treasures stored even in the depths of the sea, the ruined courtyards, the gathered wealth and grain—all these lost their worth in the absence of their beloved leader. As they imagined the city without its heart, they saw it covered in dust, forsaken by the gods, overrun by mice darting through holes. There would be no water, no smoke rising from sacred fires, no cleaning or maintenance; taxes, sacrifices, mantras, offerings, and recitations would all be lost. The city, broken as if battered by a harsh season, with shattered vessels and abandoned homes, would be left behind for Kaikeyī to possess. For the people, wherever Rāghava went, the forest would become their city, and the city they deserted would turn into a wilderness. Even the animals—the burrowing creatures, beasts, birds, elephants, and lions—would flee the forests in fear of the multitude following Rāma. Whatever they left behind, the animals would claim; whatever they inhabited, the wild creatures would abandon. They would live in the land of grass, meat, fruit, and wild beasts, content with Rāma, while Kaikeyī, her sons, and relatives took possession of the city. Thus, the people declared their intent to live happily in the forest with Rāghava. Rāma heard these heartfelt words from the people, but his resolve did not waver. With the gait of a noble 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, dejected. Though unaffected himself, Rāma waited for the distressed people there, and, smiling gently, went to see his father, determined to fulfill his father’s command. Before entering, the great-souled son of Ikṣvāku paused, seeing Sumantra, who was ready to announce his arrival to the king. Out of devotion to his father’s command and firm resolve to enter the forest, Rāghava instructed Sumantra, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Let the thirty-fourth chapter be heard. Rāma, lotus-eyed, dark, incomparable, and noble, spoke to Sumantra: “Tell my father I am here.” Sent by Rāma, Sumantra quickly entered and found the king, his senses troubled by grief and sighing deeply. The lord of the earth appeared like a sun reddened, like fire covered in ash, like a lake without water. Awakening the wise but deeply disturbed king, 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, 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, deep as the ocean, and 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. Three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, having taken vows, gently surrounded Kausalya and departed. When the wives had arrived, the king observed them and instructed Sumantra, “Sumanta, bring my son to me.” Sumantra, taking Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā, quickly went towards the presence of the lord of the earth. The king, seeing his son approaching with joined palms, rose swiftly from his seat, distressed and surrounded by women. Overcome by grief, he rushed to Rāma and fell to the ground unconscious. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa quickly approached the king, who was afflicted by sorrow and seemed senseless. A tumult arose among thousands of women in the royal palace, suddenly crying, “Alas, Rāma!” mingled with the sound of ornaments. Embracing both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, they, together with Sītā, placed the weeping king on the couch. After a moment, Rāma saw the king regain consciousness and, with joined palms, overwhelmed by tears and grief, spoke: “I take leave of you, great king, lord of us all; as I depart for the Dandaka forest, may you see me safe. Grant permission to Lakṣmaṇa, and let Sītā follow me to the forest; though restrained by many true reasons, they do not wish to stay. Grant permission to all of us, O giver of honor, casting off your grief—Lakṣmaṇa, myself, and Sītā, as the Lord of creatures does for his children.