With a heart full of love and sorrow, Kausalyā spoke gently to Lakṣmaṇa, saying, “Regard Rāma as your father, me as your mother, and Janaka’s daughter as your own. Let Ayodhyā be your forest, my child, and go as you please.” At that moment, Sumantra, the wise and humble charioteer, approached the noble descendant of Kakutstha, his hands joined in reverence, addressing Rāma with the humility and skill of Mātali before Indra. He said, “Ascend the chariot, O illustrious prince; may this journey be auspicious for you. Wherever you command, I will swiftly take you.” Sumantra reminded them, “For fourteen years you must dwell in the forest, as the queen has instructed, and those years must begin now.” Sītā, radiant with joy and shining like the sun, adorned herself and gracefully ascended the chariot. Counting the years of exile and preparing to follow her husband, Sītā’s father-in-law gave her clothing and ornaments. Weapons and armor were also brought forth for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with a sturdy shield, all placed carefully in the chariot. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, eager and resolute, quickly climbed into the chariot, which gleamed like fire and was adorned with gold. Seeing Sītā and the two brothers ready, Sumantra yoked the horses, swift as the wind, and urged the chariot forward. As Rāghava departed for the great forest and his long exile, a faintness seized the city and its people. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic; enraged and maddened elephants, neighing horses, and the tumult of the crowds resounded throughout. Children and elders alike, afflicted with grief, rushed toward Rāma as those tormented by heat seek water. On every side, from beside and behind, faces streaming with tears, the people followed him, calling out with great lamentation. “Hold back the reins, charioteer, go slowly, slowly; we wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” Some cried, “Surely Rāma’s mother’s heart is made of iron, for it does not break as her son, radiant as a god, goes to the forest.” Others praised Sītā, saying, “Vaidehī, having fulfilled her duty, follows her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru.” And to Lakṣmaṇa they called, “Ah, you are truly blessed, for you will serve your brother, ever gentle in speech and godlike in form. Great is your wisdom and prosperity; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” Speaking thus, the people could not hold back their tears as they followed their beloved, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Then King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and himself stricken and faint of heart, came out from his house, declaring, “I will see my dear son.” Ahead of him rose the great wailing of the women, like the cry 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. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and unfathomable, urged the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” While Rāma called, “Go,” the people cried, “Stop!”—but Sumantra, pressed on the road, could do neither. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, the townspeople’s falling tears soaked the dust of the earth. The city, overcome with weeping 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 gathered, seeing the king sinking and greatly distressed. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” others, “O Rāma’s mother!” and those within the inner chambers wailed, lamenting loudly. Rāma looked back and 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. 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!” He looked again and again at his mother, who, for the sake of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā, shed tears like water, as if dancing in grief. The king shouted, “Stop!” but Rāghava called, “Go, go!” and Sumantra’s mind was caught between their commands, like something caught between two wheels. Rāma said to 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. The people turned back after circling Rāma, but in their hearts, moved by swift emotion, they did not turn away from him.