As Sītā, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa climbed into the chariot, Sumantra, their faithful charioteer, readied the horses, swift as the wind, and urged them forward. The moment Rāghava departed from Ayodhyā, bound for the distant forest and a long exile, a wave of faintness swept over the city and its people. Ayodhyā was thrown into confusion and panic; elephants, enraged and maddened, trumpeted in distress, horses neighed and stamped, and the city resounded with a great tumult. In their anguish, the people of every age—children and elders alike—rushed toward Rāma, drawn to him as those tormented by blazing heat seek water. From every direction, beside and behind, they followed him, their faces streaming with tears, calling out in great lamentation. Their voices rose in desperate pleas: “Charioteer, hold back the reins! Go slowly, slowly! Let us see Rāma’s face, which soon will be lost to our sight.” Some, overcome with grief, marveled at Kausalyā’s strength: “Surely Rāma’s mother’s heart is made of iron, for it does not break as her radiant son, equal to the gods, goes to the forest.” Others gazed at Sītā, marveling at her devotion: “Vaidehī has fulfilled her duty, following her husband like a shadow, devoted to righteousness as sunlight clings to Mount Meru.” And to Lakṣmaṇa they cried, “Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, how blessed you are, to serve your gentle, godlike brother. Great is your wisdom; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke, tears flowed unrestrained, for the people could not hold back their sorrow as they followed their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. At that moment, King Daśaratha himself, surrounded by sorrowful women and stricken with grief, came forth from his house, determined to see his dear son. Ahead of him rose the great wailing of the women, their cries like those of female elephants bereft of their leader. The illustrious king, father of Kakutstha, appeared then like the full moon eclipsed by a dark planet. Meanwhile, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and deep-souled, urged Sumantra: “Drive quickly!” He pressed the charioteer onward, even as the people behind cried, “Stop!”—and Sumantra, torn between the opposing commands, could do neither. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, the townspeople’s tears fell upon the earth, soaking the dust and laying it low. The city was overcome—filled with weeping, tears, and confusion, pierced by cries of “Alas!”—and became insensible, afflicted by Rāghava’s leaving. From the eyes of the women, tears of anguish flowed like water stirred by fish, moving the lotuses. When the king saw the city so stricken, its people’s hearts fixed on Rāma, he collapsed to the ground in grief, like a tree cut at the root. A tumultuous sound rose behind Rāma as the people gathered, seeing their king fallen and greatly distressed. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” Others called out for Rāma’s mother, and those within the inner chambers wailed, lamenting loudly. Looking back, Rāma saw his father and mother, both following him on foot, their minds troubled and cast down. Seeing his parents, once accustomed to comfort, now suffering and forced to walk, Rāma urged the charioteer, “Go quickly!” For he could not bear the sorrowful sight of his father and mother, just as an elephant struck by goads cannot endure the pain. Kausalyā, weeping and running after the chariot, cried out, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” She rushed toward her son as a cow, bound and separated, runs toward her calf. Rāma looked back again and again at his mother, who, for the sake of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā, shed tears like water, as if she were dancing in her grief. The king shouted, “Stop!” but Rāma called, “Go, go!” and Sumantra’s mind was caught between their commands, like something trapped between two wheels. Rāma said softly to Sumantra, “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, after circling Rāma, turned back, but their hearts, moved by swift emotion, did not turn away from him. The ministers approached King Daśaratha and counseled, “Let no one follow him far, if you wish for his return.” Hearing their words, the wretched yet virtuous king, sweating and downcast, stood there with his wife, gazing after his son. Now listen to the next chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As that tiger among men departed, his hands joined in respect, a great cry of anguish arose from the women within the palace. “He was our refuge and protector,” they lamented, “the support of the helpless, the weak, and the ascetic—where does our protector go now? He never grew angry, even when insulted, always calmed those who were angry, and avoided all causes for anger—where does such a one, equal in sorrow, go now? Just as he was to his mother Kausalyā, so was he to us all. Where indeed is he going? Urged by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyī, he goes to the forest—where is the protector of the people, of the world, going?” Thus, the sorrow of Ayodhyā echoed far and wide as Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa departed into exile, leaving behind a city grieving for its beloved prince.