As the people of Ayodhyā grappled with the impending exile of Rāma, their hearts overflowed with sorrow and indignation. In their grief, they called down a curse upon the city itself: let all the treasures hidden in the depths of the sea, the wealth amassed in ruined courtyards, the gathered stores of grain—let all these lose their value entirely. Let the once-proud city become a place covered in dust, abandoned by the gods, overrun by darting mice and riddled with their holes. They imagined Ayodhyā stripped of its lifeblood—without water or sacred smoke, neglected and unclean, its taxes lost, its sacrifices, mantras, offerings, and recitations all vanished. The city, they said, would seem as if shattered by some harsh season, its vessels broken, its homes forsaken by the people. Let Kaikeyī, the queen whose wish had led to this calamity, take possession of these empty, ruined houses. In their longing for Rāma, the people declared that wherever Rāghava went, that very forest would become their city; and the city they left behind would turn into a wilderness. They wished that all the burrowing creatures, the beasts and birds of the hills, even mighty elephants and lions, would flee the forests in fear of their coming. Let those animals take up whatever they left behind, and abandon whatever places the exiles chose to dwell in—the wild lands of grass, meat, fruit, and roaming creatures. Let Kaikeyī, with her sons and kin, possess the forsaken city; but as for them, they would gladly live with Rāghava in the forest, finding happiness in his presence alone. Rāma listened to these passionate words from the multitude, but his mind remained steadfast and unmoved. Resolute in his dharma, he walked with the majestic stride of an elephant in rut, approaching his mother’s palace, radiant as Mount Kailāsa shining in the sun. Entering the royal residence, where disciplined heroes dwelled, Rāma saw Sumantra, the loyal charioteer, standing nearby, his face clouded with sorrow. Though Rāma himself was not afflicted, he waited patiently for the grieving people to compose themselves. With a gentle smile, he made his way to seek his father, intent on fulfilling his father’s command. Yet before proceeding to the sorrow-stricken king, the noble son of Ikṣvāku paused for a moment. Seeing Sumantra, who stood ready to announce his arrival, Rāma, firm in his resolve to enter the forest out of devotion to his father’s word, spoke to the charioteer: “Announce my arrival to the king.” Thus begins the thirty-fourth chapter. Rāma, with eyes like lotus petals, dark and incomparable in his greatness, addressed Sumantra: “Go and tell my father that I am here.” Obediently, Sumantra entered swiftly and found the king, tormented by grief, sighing deeply. The king appeared as a sun dimmed by sorrow, as fire covered in ash, as a lake emptied of water. Gently awakening the wise but troubled king, Sumantra, with hands joined in reverence, spoke while the king’s mind remained fixed upon Rāma alone. He first offered the king a wish for victory, then, in a voice soft and trembling with fear, said, “Here stands your son, a tiger among men, at the door—having given away his wealth to the Brāhmaṇas and all his dependents. May you be well! Rāma, steadfast in truth, wishes to see you. Having taken leave of his friends, he now seeks your audience. He is prepared to depart to the great forest—see him, O lord of the earth, radiant with all royal virtues, like the sun surrounded by its rays.” The king, truthful and righteous, 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.” Passing through the inner chambers, Sumantra conveyed the king’s summons to the women: “The noble king calls for you; go to him without delay.” Obedient to the command, all the women began to make their way to the palace, having received the order of their lord. Three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, bound by vows, gently surrounded Kausalyā as they departed. When the wives had assembled, the king, seeing them before him, instructed Sumantra, “Bring my son to me.” The charioteer led Rāma, accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, quickly to the presence of the lord of the earth. As Rāma approached, hands joined in humility, the king, distressed and surrounded by his wives, rose swiftly from his seat. Overcome by grief, he rushed toward Rāma, but his sorrow was so great that he collapsed to the ground, senseless. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa hurried to the king’s side, finding him stricken with grief and insensible. At that moment, a great tumult arose among the thousands of women in the palace, their cries of “Alas, Rāma!” mingling with the clamor of ornaments. Embracing both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, the women, together with Sītā, lifted the weeping king and placed him upon the couch. After a moment, as the king regained consciousness, Rāma, his hands joined, his heart awash in an ocean of tears and sorrow, spoke with reverence: “I take leave of you, great king and 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 remain behind. Grant your 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.” As Rāma waited, hoping for his father’s untroubled consent, the king, his heart heavy, began to speak to Rāma regarding his journey to the forest.