As the people of Ayodhya contemplated the consequences of Rāma’s impending exile, their hearts were heavy with sorrow and indignation. They imagined the once-glorious houses—now covered in dust, abandoned by the gods, and overrun by mice darting about, riddled with holes. The city was devoid of water and sacred smoke, lacking the careful cleaning it once received. Taxes, sacrifices, mantras, offerings, and recitations had all been lost, leaving Ayodhya bereft of its spiritual and worldly prosperity. Broken as if battered by a harsh season, the vessels lay shattered and the citizens resolved to abandon these homes. They said, “Let Kaikeyī take possession of these houses.” Their devotion to Rāma was so profound that they declared, “Let the forest become the city, wherever Rāghava goes; and let the city we leave behind become the forest.” In their minds, all the burrowing animals, the beasts and birds of the slopes, even elephants and lions, would flee the forests in fear of their arrival. They envisioned taking up what was left behind, abandoning what they had inhabited—the land of grass, meat, fruit, and the wild beasts and birds. They wished that Kaikeyī, with her sons and relatives, might take possession of Ayodhya, while they themselves would live happily in the forest with Rāghava. Amidst these passionate declarations, Rāma heard the various words spoken by many people, yet his mind remained steady and unshaken. With righteous resolve and a stride like an intoxicated elephant, Rāma approached his mother’s palace, shining like the peak of Mount Kailāsa. Entering the royal residence, where disciplined heroes dwelled, he saw Sumantra standing nearby, dejected. Though Rāma himself was not afflicted, he waited for the distressed people there, and with a gentle smile, he went to see his father, wishing only to carry out his father’s command according to duty. But before proceeding, Rāma, 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, having firmly resolved to enter the forest, Rāghava said to Sumantra, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Let the thirty-fourth chapter be heard. Then Rāma, lotus-eyed, dark, incomparable, and great, said to the charioteer, “Tell my father I am here.” Sent by Rāma, Sumantra quickly entered and saw the king, whose senses were troubled by grief, 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 king, whose mind was greatly disturbed, the charioteer, with joined palms, spoke as the king grieved only for Rāma. First, Sumantra 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 on the king’s command, 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, observing them, spoke to the charioteer, “Sumanta, bring my son to me.” Sumantra, taking Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Maithili (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. The lord of men, seeing Rāma, rushed towards him; overcome by grief, he reached him and fell to the ground unconscious. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa quickly approached the king, who was thus afflicted by sorrow and seemed senseless. A tumult of thousands of women arose in the royal palace, suddenly crying “Alas, Rāma!” mingled with the sound of ornaments. Embracing both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa with his arms, they, together with Sītā, placed the weeping king on the couch. After a moment, Rāma saw the king regain consciousness. With joined palms and overwhelmed by an ocean of tears and grief, he 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.” As Rāma awaited the king’s untroubled consent, the king spoke to him regarding his dwelling in the forest. “O Rāghava, deluded by Kaikeyī’s boon, I have been bound; you alone today should be king in Ayodhya, restraining me.