Sumitrā, filled with love for Rāghava, spoke tenderly to Lakṣmaṇa, urging him again and again, “Go, go.” She advised her son with deep wisdom: “Regard Rāma as your father, me as your mother, and Janaka’s daughter as your own. Consider Ayodhyā as the forest, and go, my child, as you please.” At that moment, Sumantra, the humble and skilled charioteer, addressed the descendant of Kakutstha with joined palms, just as Mātali would speak to Indra. He said respectfully, “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince; may it be auspicious for you. I will swiftly take you wherever Rāma commands me.” He reminded them, “For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest; those years must be begun, as the queen has instructed.” Sītā, radiant with joy, adorned herself and climbed into the chariot, shining like the sun. Her father-in-law, mindful of her journey and the years of exile, gave her clothing and ornaments for her to follow her husband. Weapons and armor were also bestowed upon the two brothers, along with a sturdy shield, and all these were placed in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, together, quickly ascended the chariot, which gleamed like fire, adorned with gold. Seeing Sītā and the two brothers mounted, Sumantra urged the chariot onward, yoked with horses swift as the wind. As Rāghava departed for the great forest to begin his long exile, faintness seized the city and its people. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic, with enraged and maddened elephants, the clamor of neighing horses, and a great tumult resounding everywhere. The afflicted city, both children and elders alike, rushed toward Rāma, as one tormented by heat seeks water. On every side, from beside and behind, all of them, faces streaming with tears, followed him, calling out with great lamentation. They pleaded, “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.” Some 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.” Others admired Sītā, saying, “Indeed, Vaidehī, having fulfilled her duty, follows her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru.” Many praised Lakṣmaṇa: “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 not hold back their tears, following their beloved, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Then the king, surrounded by sorrowful women, himself stricken and faint of heart, came out from his house, saying, “I will see my dear son.” Before him rose the great wailing of the women, like the cry of female elephants when their mighty leader is bound. The illustrious king, father of Kakutstha, appeared at that moment like the full moon eclipsed by a planet. Meanwhile, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and of unfathomable soul, urged the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” Rāma said to Sumantra, “Go,” while 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 dust of the earth, laying it low. The city, overcome with weeping, tears, and confusion, filled with cries of “Alas!”, became insensible at Rāghava’s departure, greatly afflicted. From the eyes of the women 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 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 sinking and greatly distressed, gathered together. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” others, “O Rāma’s mother!” and those within the inner chambers wailed, lamenting loudly. Rāma looked back and saw the king and his 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, he 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. Just as a cow, bound and separated from her calf, runs towards her calf, so did Rāma’s mother rush towards him. Kausalyā, weeping and running after the chariot, cried out, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” Rāma looked again and again at his mother, who, for the sake of her children, shed tears like water, as if she were dancing in grief. The king shouted, “Stop!” but Rāghava called, “Go, go!” Sumantra’s mind was caught between their commands, like something caught between two wheels. Rāma advised him, “Even if the king reproaches you, say you did not hear; for long suffering is most sinful.” Obeying Rāma’s words and taking leave of the people, the charioteer quickly urged the horses onward, and thus they departed, leaving behind a city plunged in sorrow.