The house of King Daśaratha, once vibrant and resounding with the joyful sounds of drums, cymbals, and celebration, now echoed only with lamentation and grief. Like thunderclouds heavy with sorrow, the palace was plunged into misfortune, filled with mourning and profound sadness. In this atmosphere of despair, Rāma, accompanied by Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, approached the king. With hands joined in reverence, their hearts weighed down by sorrow, they performed the ritual circumambulation of Daśaratha, taking leave of him in the prescribed manner. Having received the king’s permission to depart, the righteous Rāghava—Rāma—together with Sītā, who was bewildered by grief, bowed deeply to his mother. Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted, followed his brother’s example. He bowed first to Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, and then respectfully grasped the feet of his own mother, Sumitrā. Sumitrā, weeping as her mighty-armed son bowed before her, blessed Lakṣmaṇa and kissed him tenderly on the head. “My son,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion, “you are sent to dwell in the forest, devoted to your dear ones. Do not be careless as you follow your brother Rāma. Whether in adversity or prosperity, this is your path, O blameless one. It is the dharma of the virtuous to be obedient to the elder. This conduct is fitting for our noble lineage—eternal is this path: giving, initiation in sacrifices, and self-sacrifice in battle.” Having thus spoken, Sumitrā, who loved Rāghava as her own, repeatedly urged Lakṣmaṇa, “Go, go.” She continued, “Regard Rāma as your father, me as your mother, and Janaka’s daughter, Sītā, as your own. Consider Ayodhyā as the forest, and go, my child, as you please.” At that moment, Sumantra, the charioteer, approached with joined palms and addressed Rāma, the illustrious descendant of Kakutstha, with humility and skill, as Mātali might speak to Indra. “Ascend the chariot, O noble prince; may it be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever you command.” He reminded them, “For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest; those years must begin now, as the queen has instructed.” Sītā, radiant with joy despite her sorrow, adorned herself and ascended the chariot, shining like the sun. In preparation for her exile, her father-in-law gave her clothing and ornaments, counting out the years she would spend away. Likewise, weapons and armor were given to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with a sturdy shield, and these were placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa then quickly ascended the chariot, which gleamed like fire and was adorned with gold. Seeing Sītā and the two brothers thus mounted, Sumantra urged the chariot onward, the horses swift as the wind. As Rāghava departed for the great forest and his long exile, a faintness seized the city of Ayodhyā and its people. The city was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants raged and stampeded, horses neighed and clamored, and a great tumult arose everywhere. Children and elders alike, greatly afflicted, rushed only toward Rāma, as one tormented by heat seeks water. On every side, from beside and behind, people with faces streaming with tears followed him, calling out in great lamentation. “Hold back the reins of the horses, charioteer! Go slowly, slowly,” they pleaded. “We wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” They cried out in anguish, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for she does not break as her son, equal to a god in radiance, goes to the forest. And Vaidehī, Sītā, fulfills her duty, following her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru. Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, you are truly blessed, for you will serve your brother, ever gentle in speech and godlike in form. Great indeed is your wisdom, and great this prosperity; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke thus, the people could no longer hold back their tears, their love and sorrow overflowing as they followed their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Meanwhile, King Daśaratha himself, surrounded by sorrowful women and stricken with grief, came forth from his house, declaring, “I will see my dear son.” Ahead of him, the wailing of the women rose, like the cries of female elephants when their mighty leader is bound. At that moment, the illustrious king, father of Kakutstha, appeared like the full moon eclipsed by a planet, his radiance dimmed by sorrow. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and of unfathomable soul, urged the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” Torn between the pleas of the people—who cried, “Stop!”—and Rāma’s command to go, Sumantra pressed on the road, unable to do either fully. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, the tears of the townspeople fell, soaking the dust of the earth and laying it low. Ayodhyā, overwhelmed with weeping, tears, and confusion, filled with the cries of “Alas!” became insensible at Rāghava’s departure, deeply afflicted. From the eyes of the women flowed tears born of anguish, like water stirred by fish, moving the lotuses. But when the illustrious king saw the city, its people’s hearts fixed on Rāma, he fell to the ground in grief, like a tree cut at the root. A tumultuous sound arose behind Rāma as the people, seeing the king collapse in distress, gathered in sorrow. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” Others called out, “O Rāma’s mother!” And within the inner chambers, the women wailed, their lamentations echoing loudly through the palace and the city.