As Rāma spoke with gentle resolve to the wives of King Daśaratha, a mournful sound rose among them, echoing the plaintive cry of cranes. The once-joyful house of Daśaratha was transformed; it resounded not with music and celebration, but with wailing and sorrow, like the rumbling of drums, the clash of cymbals, and the thunder of storm clouds. Grief and misfortune filled every corner, plunging the royal household into profound despair. In the midst of this sorrow, Rāma, accompanied by Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, approached the king. With hands joined in reverence and hearts heavy with sadness, they performed the sacred ritual of circumambulation, moving slowly around Daśaratha as tears welled in their eyes. Having received his father’s permission, the righteous Rāma, joined by Sītā—her mind bewildered by grief—bowed deeply before his mother, Kausalyā. Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted, followed his brother’s example, bowing to Kausalyā and then to his own mother, Sumitrā. Overcome with emotion, Sumitrā wept as she blessed her son, embracing the mighty-armed Lakṣmaṇa and kissing him tenderly on the head. “My son,” she said, her voice trembling, “you are called to dwell in the forest, devoted to your dear ones. Do not be careless as you follow your brother Rāma. In adversity and prosperity alike, this is your path, O blameless one. The dharma of the virtuous is to obey the elder. This conduct has ever been the way of our noble lineage—giving, performing sacrifices, and self-sacrifice in battle. Go, my child, and do not waver.” With these words, Sumitrā, whose heart overflowed with love for Rāma, urged Lakṣmaṇa onward, repeating, “Go, go.” She counseled him further: “Regard Rāma as your father, me as your mother, and Sītā, Janaka’s daughter, as your own. Consider Ayodhyā as the forest, and go forth as you please, my son.” At that moment, Sumantra, the humble and wise charioteer, stood before Rāma with joined palms, speaking with deep reverence—just as Mātali might speak to Indra. “Ascend the chariot, illustrious prince,” he said. “May this journey be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever you command.” He reminded them, “For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest, as the queen has decreed. Let the years of exile begin.” Sītā, radiant with inner joy and adorned in her finest ornaments, ascended the chariot, shining with the brilliance of the sun. In preparation for her exile and out of love for her, her father-in-law bestowed upon her clothing and ornaments. Similarly, weapons and armor were given to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with a sturdy shield, all placed within the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, resolute and swift, climbed into the chariot, which gleamed like fire, adorned with gold. Seeing them thus prepared, Sumantra yoked the horses, swift as the wind, and urged the chariot forward. As Rāma departed for his long exile in the great forest, a wave of faintness and sorrow swept over the city and its people. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants, enraged and maddened, added to the tumult, while horses neighed and the clamor grew. The city’s children and elders, deeply afflicted, rushed toward Rāma, drawn to him as one parched by heat seeks water. On all sides, people—faces streaming with tears—followed him, calling out in great lamentation. “Hold back the reins of the horses, charioteer,” they cried. “Go slowly, slowly. We wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” Some marveled, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for she does not break as her son, radiant as a god, goes to the forest.” Others looked to Sītā: “Vaidehī, fulfilling her duty, follows her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, as sunlight clings to Mount Meru.” And to Lakṣmaṇa, they said, “Ah, you are truly blessed, for you will serve your brother, ever gentle in speech and godlike in form. Great indeed is your wisdom and fortune; this path you follow leads to heaven.” As the people spoke thus, their tears flowed unrestrained, for they could not bear the pain of parting from their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. In the midst of this anguish, King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and himself stricken with grief, emerged from his house, crying, “I will see my dear son!” Ahead of him rose the wailing of the royal women, their cries like those of female elephants mourning their bound and mighty leader. At that moment, the illustrious king, father of Rāma, appeared like the full moon eclipsed by a planet—his radiance dimmed by sorrow. Rāma, steadfast and of unfathomable soul, urged Sumantra, “Drive quickly!” He commanded the charioteer to go, while the people pleaded for him to stop. Caught between the wishes of prince and people, Sumantra could do neither, pressed onward by the demands of duty. As the mighty-armed Rāma departed, the tears of the townspeople fell, wetting the dust of the earth and laying it low. The city was overcome with weeping, confusion, and cries of “Alas!”—insensible with grief at Rāma’s leaving. From the eyes of the women flowed tears of anguish, like water stirred by fish, moving the lotuses. When Daśaratha beheld his city, its people’s hearts fixed solely on Rāma, he was overwhelmed by grief and collapsed, like a great tree cut at the root. Behind Rāma, a tumultuous sound arose, as the people, seeing their king fallen and deeply distressed, gathered together in sorrow, their lamentation echoing through Ayodhyā.