With the king’s permission granted, the righteous Rāma, his heart heavy with grief, prepared to depart for exile. Sītā, bewildered and sorrowful, stood beside him. Together, they approached Rāma’s mother, Kausalyā, and bowed reverently before her. Lakṣmaṇa, ever faithful, followed his brother’s lead, bowing first to Kausalyā and then to his own mother, Sumitrā. As Lakṣmaṇa bent at her feet, Sumitrā, her eyes streaming with tears, spoke words of blessing to her mighty-armed son and kissed him tenderly on the head. “My son,” she said, her voice trembling, “you are sent to dwell in the forest, devoted to your beloved ones. Do not be careless as you follow your brother Rāma. In adversity or prosperity, this is your path, O blameless one. It is the dharma of the virtuous to obey their elders. This conduct is fitting for our noble lineage—an eternal tradition of giving, sacrifice, and selfless valor in battle.” Having spoken thus, Sumitrā, who cherished Rāma as her own, urged Lakṣmaṇa again and again, “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 humble and skilled charioteer, approached Rāma with joined palms, addressing him as Mātali would speak to Indra. “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince; may it be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever you command. For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest, as the queen has instructed; those years must now begin.” Sītā, radiant with joy despite the sorrow, adorned herself and climbed onto the chariot, shining like the sun. Her father-in-law, mindful of her needs for the exile, gave her clothing and ornaments, counting the years she would spend away and honoring her devotion to her husband. Weapons and armor were also given to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with a sturdy shield, and these were placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, resolute and swift, ascended the golden chariot, which gleamed like fire. Sītā and the two brothers settled in their places, and Sumantra yoked the horses, swift as the wind, and urged the chariot forward. As Rāma departed for the great forest and his long exile, a faintness swept over the city and its people. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants raged and horses neighed, their cries mingling in a tumultuous uproar. The citizens, young and old, deeply afflicted, rushed toward Rāma as one tormented by heat seeks water. On all sides, from beside and behind, faces wet with tears, the people followed him, calling out in great lamentation. “Hold back the reins of the horses, charioteer! Go slowly, slowly; we wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” They mourned, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for it does not break as her son, radiant as a god, goes to the forest. 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 gentle, godlike brother. Great is your wisdom and prosperity; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke, tears flowed unrestrained, for they could not bear the loss of their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku lineage. Meanwhile, King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and himself stricken with grief, emerged from his palace, determined to see his dear son. Ahead of him rose the great wailing of the women, like the cries of female elephants when their mighty leader is bound. The illustrious king, father of the Kakutstha line, appeared at that moment like the full moon eclipsed by a planet. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and of unfathomable soul, urged Sumantra, “Drive quickly!” Though Rāma said “Go,” the people cried “Stop!”—but the charioteer, pressed on the road, could do neither. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, the townspeople’s falling tears soaked the earth, laying its dust low. The city, overcome with weeping and confusion, filled with cries of “Alas!”, became insensible at Rāghava’s departure, greatly afflicted. From the women’s eyes flowed tears born of anguish, like water stirred by fish, moving the lotuses. When the illustrious king saw the city, its people’s minds fixed solely 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 their king sinking and greatly distressed, gathered together. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” Others called for Rāma’s mother, and those within the inner chambers wailed, lamenting loudly. Rāma, looking back, saw his father and mother, both following him on the road, their minds troubled and dejected. Seeing his parents, accustomed to comfort but now suffering and forced to walk on foot, Rāma urged the charioteer, “Go quickly!” That tiger among men could not bear the sorrowful sight of his father and mother, just as an elephant struck by goads cannot endure the pain.