After Rāma, radiant and lotus-eyed, stood at the palace doors, dark and incomparable in his greatness, he turned to his charioteer and said, “Go, tell my father that I am here.” Swiftly, the charioteer entered the royal chambers and found King Daśaratha, his senses consumed by grief, sighing deeply. The king, once the mighty lord of the earth, now appeared like the sun obscured, like fire hidden beneath ashes, and like a lake emptied of its waters. The charioteer, with joined palms, gently awakened the wise but troubled king, who grieved only for Rāma. First, he offered the king a respectful greeting, wishing him victory, and then, in a voice trembling with fear and gentleness, he spoke: “Your son, the tiger among men, stands at your door. He has given away his wealth to the Brāhmaṇas and all his dependents. May you be well! Let Rāma, steadfast in truth, come before you. Having taken leave of all his friends, he now wishes to see you. He is prepared to go to the great forest—see him, O lord of the earth, adorned with all royal virtues, like the sun surrounded by its rays.” King Daśaratha, ever 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.” Sumantra passed through the inner chambers and announced to the royal women, “The noble king summons you; go to him without delay.” Thus commanded, all the women began to make their way to the palace, having received their lord’s order. Among them were three and a half hundred women with coppery eyes, who, having taken vows, gently surrounded Kausalyā and proceeded with her. When the king saw his wives assembled, he spoke to Sumantra, “Bring my son to me.” Sumantra then brought Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā swiftly into the king’s presence. As Rāma approached with joined palms, the king, distressed and surrounded by his wives, rose quickly from his seat. Overcome by grief, the lord of men rushed toward his beloved son, but as he reached him, he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa hurried to their father’s side, finding him senseless with sorrow. Suddenly, a tumult of cries burst from thousands of women in the palace, their voices mingling with the clamor of ornaments as they wailed, “Alas, Rāma!” Embracing both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, the women, together with Sītā, gently placed the weeping king upon a couch. After a moment, as the king regained consciousness, Rāma, with joined palms and eyes brimming with tears, spoke, his heart heavy with grief: “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 I have given them many good reasons to stay, they will not be restrained. Grant permission to all of us, O giver of honor—Lakṣmaṇa, myself, and Sītā—as the Lord of creatures does for his children, casting off your grief.” As Rāma awaited his father’s untroubled consent, the king spoke to him about his dwelling in the forest. “O Rāghava, deluded by Kaikeyī’s boon, I have been bound; you alone today should be king in Ayodhyā, restraining me.” Thus addressed, Rāma, best among the righteous, bowed with joined palms and replied skillfully, “You, O king, should rule the earth for a thousand years; I desire no kingdom, but will dwell in the forest. After spending fourteen years there, I will again clasp your feet, O lord of men, at the end of my vow.” Weeping, distressed, and bound by the fetter of truth, the king, urged by Kaikeyī, spoke to his beloved son, “For your welfare, growth, and safe 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.” With deep sorrow, the king continued, “What you are doing, beloved Rāghava, is truly difficult; for my sake, you have taken up the forest life in this way. But this does not please me, my son—by truth I swear, O Rāghava; I have been deceived by a woman as destructive as fire covered in ashes. The deception that has befallen me, you wish to overcome, being urged by Kaikeyī, who is steadfast in her resolve but unrighteous in conduct. Yet it is not surprising, my son, that you, my eldest, wish to keep your father free from falsehood.” Hearing his father’s distressed words, Rāma turned sorrowfully to Lakṣmaṇa and said, “What virtues will I gain today, and who will grant them to me tomorrow? Therefore, I choose only to depart, renouncing all desires.