Then, that righteous Rāma—whose gait was as stately as an intoxicated elephant—approached his mother’s palace, his presence radiant like the shining peak of Mount Kailāsa. Entering the royal residence, where disciplined and valiant men dwelled, he noticed Sumantra, the charioteer, standing nearby, his face cast down in sorrow. Though Rāma himself was not afflicted, he waited patiently among those distressed souls. With a gentle smile, he made his way to see his father, intent on fulfilling his father’s command as duty required. But before he went to the sorrowful king, the great-souled son of Ikṣvāku paused for a moment, noticing Sumantra, who stood ready to announce his arrival. Out of devotion to his father’s word and firm in his resolve to enter the forest, Rāghava said to Sumantra, “Announce my arrival to the king.” With eyes like lotus petals, dark and incomparable, Rāma, that great soul, spoke to the charioteer: “Tell my father I am here.” Sent by Rāma, Sumantra quickly entered the royal chambers and saw King Daśaratha, his senses troubled by grief, sighing deeply. The king appeared like the sun shrouded in red, like fire veiled in ash, or a lake drained of water. Sumantra gently awakened the wise king, whose mind was agitated by sorrow and who grieved only for Rāma. With joined palms, he first offered the king a wish for victory, and then, his voice faint and fearful, he spoke: “Here stands your son, the tiger among men, at the door. He has given away his 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 surrounded by its rays.” Hearing this, the king—truthful, righteous, and as deep as the ocean—pure as the sky—replied, “Sumantra, bring here all my wives who are present. I wish to see Rāghava surrounded by them all.” Sumantra passed through the inner chambers and spoke to the women, “The noble king summons you; go without delay.” Thus commanded, all the women began to proceed to the palace, having received their lord’s order. Three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, who had taken vows, gently surrounded Kausalya and departed together. When the king saw that his wives had assembled, he said to the charioteer, “Sumantra, bring my son to me.” Sumantra, taking Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and also Sītā, quickly led them to the presence of the lord of the earth. As the king saw his son approaching with joined palms, he rose swiftly from his seat, distressed and surrounded by his wives. Overcome by grief, the king rushed toward Rāma with great speed, but his sorrow overwhelmed him and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa hurried to their father, who was stricken with grief and lay senseless. At that moment, a tumult of thousands of women arose in the royal palace, crying out “Alas, Rāma!”—their voices mingled with the clamor of ornaments. Embracing both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa with their arms, they, together with Sītā, gently lifted the weeping king and placed him on the couch. After a moment, as the king regained consciousness, Rāma, his palms joined and his heart awash in 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.” As Rāma waited for the king’s untroubled consent, the king spoke to him regarding his dwelling in the forest: “O Raghava, deluded by Kaikeyi’s boon, I have been bound; you alone today should be king in Ayodhyā, restraining me.” Thus addressed, Rāma, best of the righteous, bowed with joined palms and replied skillfully: “You, O king, should rule the earth for a thousand years; I will dwell in the forest, desiring no kingdom. After spending fourteen years in the forest, I will again clasp your feet, O lord of men, at the end of my vow.” Weeping, distressed, bound by the fetter of truth, and urged by Kaikeyi, the king spoke to his beloved son: “For your welfare, growth, and return, dear father, go without anxiety on a safe and unobstructed path. Indeed, O delight of the Raghus, it is not possible to turn back the resolve of one such as you, whose mind is set on truth and righteousness. But now, my son, do not go tonight under any circumstances; let me spend at least this one day in your presence. What you are doing, beloved Rāghava, is truly difficult; for my sake, you have taken up the forest life in this way.