Sumitrā, wise and loving mother of Lakṣmaṇa, spoke to her son with a heart full of courage and devotion. She reminded him of the noble path their family had always followed—giving generously, performing sacred rites, and sacrificing themselves in battle when needed. Such conduct, she said, was the eternal way of their illustrious lineage. Then, with deep affection for Rāma, Sumitrā urged Lakṣmaṇa again and again, “Go, my child, go.” She instructed him to see Rāma as his father, herself as his mother, and Sītā, Janaka’s daughter, as his own. “Consider Ayodhyā as the forest,” she said, “and go as you wish, my dear son.” At that moment, Sumantra, the humble and skilled charioteer, approached Rāma with joined palms, speaking as respectfully as Mātali would to Indra. “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince,” he said. “May this journey be auspicious for you. Wherever Rāma commands, I will swiftly take you.” He reminded them of the queen’s command: for fourteen years, they must dwell in the forest, and today marked the beginning of that exile. Sītā, radiant with joy and determination, adorned herself and climbed onto the chariot, shining with a brilliance like the sun. Her father-in-law, mindful of her needs for the long journey ahead, gave her clothing and ornaments, counting the years of exile she would endure for her husband’s sake. Weapons and armor were also provided to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with a sturdy shield, all placed carefully in the chariot. The two brothers then ascended the golden, fire-bright chariot together. Sumantra, seeing Sītā and the brothers ready, yoked the swiftest of horses and urged the chariot onward, their speed like the rushing wind. As Rāma set out for his long exile in the great forest, a wave of faintness and sorrow swept over the city and its people. The city was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants, enraged and maddened, trumpeted, horses neighed, and the tumult of the people resounded everywhere. The citizens—children and elders alike—were overwhelmed with grief and rushed toward Rāma, as those tormented by heat seek cooling water. On every side, people followed behind and beside the chariot, their faces streaming with tears, calling out with loud lamentation. “Hold back the reins, charioteer! Go slowly, slowly; let us see Rāma’s face, for soon it will be hard for us to behold him.” Some marveled at the strength of Rāma’s mother, wondering how her heart did not break as her son, radiant as a god, went to the forest. Others admired Sītā, who followed her husband like a devoted shadow, never leaving his side, her righteousness as steadfast as sunlight clinging to Mount Meru. They praised Lakṣmaṇa, too, for his blessedness in serving his gentle, godlike brother. “Great is your wisdom, Lakṣmaṇa, and great your fortune. Truly, this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke, tears flowed uncontrollably, for they loved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line, with all their hearts. Meanwhile, King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and stricken with grief, left his house, determined to see his beloved son one last time. Ahead of him rose the loud wailing of the palace women, their cries like she-elephants mourning their captured leader. The illustrious king, father of Rāma, appeared then like a full moon eclipsed by a dark planet, his splendor dimmed by sorrow. Rāma, son of Daśaratha and possessed of a deep, unfathomable soul, urged Sumantra, “Drive quickly!” As the people called for the chariot to stop, and Rāma commanded it to go, Sumantra, caught between their pleas, could do neither. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, the tears of the townspeople fell upon the earth, soaking the dust and laying it low. The city, overcome with weeping and confusion, echoed with cries of “Alas!” and became insensible with grief at Rāma’s departure. From the eyes of the women flowed streams of tears, as if the lotuses of their hearts were stirred by the agony within. When the king saw his city so afflicted, with all minds fixed on Rāma, he collapsed in grief, like a tree felled at its root. A tumultuous sound rose behind Rāma, as the people, seeing their king so stricken, gathered together, their sorrow deepening. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” Others called out for Rāma’s mother, while those within the palace wailed and lamented loudly. Rāma looked back and saw his father and mother, their minds troubled and dejected, following him on foot. Seeing his parents, once accustomed to comfort but now suffering and forced to walk, he urged Sumantra, “Go quickly!” For Rāma, like an elephant unable to endure the goad’s pain, could not bear the sight of his parents’ sorrow. Just as a cow, bound and separated, runs desperately toward her calf, so did Kausalyā, weeping and running after the chariot, cry out, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” Again and again, Rāma looked back at his mother, who, for his sake and for Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, shed tears as if dancing in her grief. The king called out, “Stop!” but Rāma urged, “Go, go!” Sumantra’s heart was caught between their opposing commands, like an object trapped between two turning wheels. Rāma, understanding the pain of duty, told his charioteer, “Even if the king reproaches you, say you did not hear; for long suffering is most sinful.” Thus, amidst tears, longing, and the love of his people, Rāma’s chariot rolled onward, carrying with it the hopes and sorrows of Ayodhyā.