The city of Ayodhyā was thrown into utter confusion and panic. Elephants, enraged and driven mad by the turmoil, rampaged through the streets, while neighing horses added to the great tumult that echoed through every corner. In their grief, the people—children and elders alike—were drawn irresistibly toward Rāma, just as those tormented by burning heat seek the relief of water. On all sides, from beside and behind, the people pressed in, their faces streaked with tears. With great lamentation, they followed after Rāma, unable to restrain their sorrow. Their voices rose in desperate pleas: “Charioteer, hold back the reins of the horses! Go slowly, slowly—we wish to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be so hard for us to behold.” Some, weeping, cried, “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother is made of iron, for it does not break as her radiant son, equal to a god, goes to the forest.” Others looked upon Sītā and said, “Vaidehī, having fulfilled her duty, follows her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, devoted to righteousness as sunlight to Mount Meru.” Turning to Lakṣmaṇa, their voices trembled with both grief and admiration: “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 your prosperity; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke thus, tears flowed without restraint, for the people could not contain their grief as they followed their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku line. Then, King Daśaratha himself, surrounded by sorrowful women and stricken with a faint heart, emerged from his house, saying, “I will see my dear son.” Ahead of him rose the great wailing of the women, their cries like those of female elephants lamenting when their mighty leader is bound. At that moment, the illustrious king—the father of Kakutstha—appeared like the full moon eclipsed by a dark planet. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and unfathomable in soul, urged the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” But as Rāma called out “Go!” the people cried, “Stop!”—and Sumantra, the charioteer, pressed on the road, was caught between their conflicting commands. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, the tears of the townspeople fell to the earth, soaking the dust and laying it low. The city itself was overcome with weeping and confusion, filled with cries of “Alas!” and became insensible at Rāghava’s departure, greatly afflicted. From the eyes of the women, tears of anguish flowed like water stirred by fish, moving the lotuses. When the illustrious king saw the city, its people’s hearts and minds fixed only 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 collapse in distress, gathered around. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” while others called out for Rāma’s mother, and those within the inner chambers wailed loudly in sorrow. 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, Rāma urged the charioteer, “Go quickly!” For 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 offspring, 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 beloved sons and Sītā, shed tears as if she were dancing in grief. The king shouted, “Stop!” but Rāghava called, “Go, go!” and Sumantra’s heart was torn between their commands, like something caught between two turning wheels. Rāma instructed 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. The people, after circling Rāma in farewell, turned back, but their hearts, moved by swift emotion, 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 as he departed. 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 rose from the women within the royal inner chambers. “He was our refuge and protector—the one who cared for the helpless, the weak, and the ascetic—where now does that protector go?” they wailed. “He never grew angry, even when insulted; he avoided causes for anger and calmed all who were upset—where does such a one, equal in sorrow, go now?” They lamented, “Just as he behaved toward his mother Kausalyā with great energy, so did that great soul behave toward us; where indeed is he going? Urged by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyī, he goes to the forest—where indeed is the protector of these people, the world, going? Alas, the king is senseless, bringing ruin to the living world, sending Rāma, who is righteous and true to his vows, to dwell in the forest.” Thus, all the royal wives, distressed like cows bereft of their calves, wept and cried out aloud in their sorrow, as Ayodhyā mourned the departure of its beloved Rāma.