When Rāghava, noble Rāma, departed for the great forest to undertake his long exile, a wave of faintness swept over the city and its people. Ayodhyā, usually vibrant and ordered, was thrown into confusion and panic. Enraged and maddened elephants roared, horses neighed loudly, and a great tumult echoed through the streets. The city’s children and elders, all deeply afflicted, rushed toward Rāma as if tormented by unbearable heat and seeking relief in water. From every direction—beside him and behind him—the people followed, their faces streaming with tears, calling out to him in great lamentation. They pleaded with the charioteer, “Hold back the reins of the horses, go slowly, slowly; we wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” Some cried out in wonder, “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.” Vaidehī, Sītā, having fulfilled her duty, followed her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru. The people spoke of Lakṣmaṇa’s fortune: “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, tears streamed from their eyes, unable to be held back, as they followed their beloved Rāma, 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 rang the great wailing of the women, sounding like the cries 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 unfathomable in 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 out, “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, who were 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!” and Sumantra’s mind was caught between their commands, like something trapped 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. The ministers advised 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. Listen now to the forty-first chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As that tiger among men, Rāma, departed with joined palms, a great cry of anguish arose from the women within the inner chambers. He was the refuge and protector of these helpless, weak, and ascetic people—where now does that protector go? He did not grow angry even when insulted, avoided causes for anger, and calmed all who were angry—where does such a one, equal in sorrow, go now? Just as he behaves toward his mother Kausalyā with great energy, so does that great soul behave toward us; where indeed is he going? Urged by the king, who is afflicted by Kaikeyī, he goes to the forest; where indeed is the protector of these people, of the world, going? Alas, the king is senseless, bringing ruin to the world of the living, sending Rāma, who is righteous and true to his vows, to dwell in the forest.