Though his own heart was steady, Rāma patiently lingered among the sorrowful people gathered there, his gentle smile offering them solace. His mind was set on fulfilling his father’s command, and, with this sense of duty guiding him, Rāma made his way to see King Daśaratha. Just before entering the king’s presence, however, the noble Rāma—descendant of Ikṣvāku—paused briefly as he noticed Sumantra, the faithful charioteer, standing nearby, ready to announce his arrival. Rāma, his resolve unwavering and his devotion to his father’s word absolute, turned to Sumantra and said, “Announce my arrival to the king.” Then, with eyes like lotuses, his dark and radiant form unmatched, Rāma spoke again: “Tell my father I am here.” Obedient to Rāma’s wish, Sumantra quickly entered the royal chambers. There he found King Daśaratha, lord of the earth, his senses clouded by grief, sighing deeply. The king appeared as the sun shrouded in red, as fire veiled in ash, as a lake dried of its waters—his spirit weighed down, his mind in turmoil for the sake of Rāma alone. Sumantra, with hands respectfully joined, gently roused the wise but anguished king and addressed him. First, Sumantra greeted the king with a blessing for victory. Then, his voice trembling with fear and sorrow, he spoke softly: “Your son, the tiger among men, stands at your door. He has given away his wealth to the Brāhmaṇas and to all his dependents. May you be well, O King! Let Rāma, steadfast in truth, see you. Having taken leave of his friends, he now wishes to bid you farewell. He will soon depart for the great forest—see him, O lord of the earth, adorned with all the virtues of a king, radiant as the sun with its rays.” Hearing this, Daśaratha—righteous, truthful, profound as the ocean, pure as the sky—replied, “Sumantra, summon all my wives who are present. Surrounded by them, I wish to see Rāghava.” Sumantra passed through the inner chambers, conveying the king’s command to the royal women: “The noble king calls you; come without delay.” At his words, all the women prepared to go to the king’s palace, eager to fulfill their lord’s wish. Among them, three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, devoted and gentle, gathered around Kausalyā and set out together. When the king saw his wives assembled before him, he said to Sumantra, “Now bring my son to me.” Sumantra then brought Rāma, accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, swiftly into the king’s presence. As Rāma approached, palms joined in reverence, King Daśaratha—surrounded by his wives and overwhelmed by distress—rose quickly from his seat. In his anguish, the king rushed toward Rāma, but grief overcame him and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Rāma and mighty Lakṣmaṇa hurried to their father’s side, finding him senseless with sorrow. At that moment, a great clamor arose within the palace: thousands of women cried out, “Alas, Rāma!” Their voices mingled with the jingling of ornaments, filling the halls with lamentation. Together, Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā gently lifted the stricken king and placed him, weeping, upon his couch. After a moment, as the king regained consciousness, Rāma—his own eyes brimming with tears, his heart submerged in an ocean of grief—bowed with joined palms and spoke: “I take leave of you, great king, lord of us all. As I depart for the Dandaka forest, may you see me return safely. Please grant permission to Lakṣmaṇa, and let Sītā follow me as well; though they are urged by many good reasons to remain, they will not be persuaded. Grant permission to all of us, O bestower of honor—Lakṣmaṇa, Sītā, and myself—casting aside your grief, just as the Lord of all creatures sends forth his children.” As Rāma waited, longing for his father’s untroubled consent, Daśaratha, his heart aching, addressed his son regarding the exile: “O Rāghava, blinded by Kaikeyī’s boon, I am bound by my word. You alone should be king in Ayodhyā today, restraining me.” To this, Rāma—the embodiment of righteousness—bowed deeply and replied with gentle skill, “You, O King, should rule the earth for a thousand years. I seek no kingdom; I will dwell in the forest as commanded. After fourteen years in the wilderness, I will return and again clasp your feet, O lord of men, when my vow is fulfilled.” But the king, weeping and distressed, bound by the fetters of truth and pressed by Kaikeyī’s demands, spoke to his beloved son: “For your welfare, growth, and safe return, my dearest, go without anxiety on a safe and unobstructed path. Indeed, O joy of the Raghus, it is not possible to turn aside one whose mind is set on truth and righteousness, as yours is. Yet, my son, I beg you—do not leave tonight. Let me spend at least this one night in your presence.” Daśaratha’s voice trembled as he continued, “What you are doing, beloved Rāghava, is truly difficult; for my sake, you have accepted this forest life. But, my son, this does not please me—by truth I swear, O Rāghava. I have been deceived by a woman as destructive as fire covered in ashes. The deception that has overtaken me, you now seek to overcome, urged by Kaikeyī, who is unwavering in her resolve but unrighteous in her conduct.” Thus, in the midst of sorrow and steadfast love, father and son confronted the pain of parting, bound by duty, truth, and the unbreakable ties of dharma.