As Rāma prepared to depart, the decree was clear: he must dwell in the forest for fourteen years, as Queen Kaikeyī had commanded. Sītā, radiant with joy and unwavering devotion, adorned herself and ascended the chariot, shining with a brilliance akin to the sun. Counting the years of exile and honoring her resolve to follow her husband, Sītā’s father-in-law, King Daśaratha, tenderly gave her clothing and ornaments for the journey. Weapons and armor were also bestowed upon Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with a sturdy shield, all carefully placed in the chariot. The two brothers, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, swiftly climbed aboard the vehicle, which gleamed like fire and was adorned with gold. Seeing Sītā and the brothers ready, Sumantra, the charioteer, urged the chariot forward, yoked to horses swift as the wind. As Rāma, the scion of the Raghus, departed for the vast and forbidding forest, a wave of faintness swept over the city and its people. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants, enraged and maddened, trumpeted wildly, and horses neighed, filling the air with tumult. The city’s children and elders, afflicted by grief, rushed toward Rāma, as one tormented by heat seeks water. From every direction, the people pressed forward, faces streaming with tears, following him and crying out in lamentation. “Charioteer, hold back the reins, go slowly, slowly! We wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” Some cried, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for she does not break as her son, radiant as a god, goes to the forest.” Vaidehī, Sītā, fulfilled her duty, following her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight is 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 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 Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Then King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and stricken with grief, came forth from his house, declaring, “I will see my 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 Kakutstha, appeared like the full moon eclipsed by a planet. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and unfathomable of soul, urged the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” While Rāma said “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. Ayodhyā, 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. Then 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 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 toward her calf, so did Rāma’s mother rush toward 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!” and Sumantra’s mind was caught between their commands, like something caught between two wheels. Rāma instructed 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, even as they departed. The people turned back after circling Rāma, but in their hearts, moved by swift emotion, they did not turn away from him. The ministers said to King Daśaratha, “Let no one follow him far, if you wish for his return.” Hearing their words, full of all virtues, the wretched king, sweating and downcast, stood there with his wife, gazing at his son. Thus concludes this portion, and now begins the forty-first chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa.