As Rāma’s chariot prepared to depart from Ayodhyā, the hearts of the people overflowed with sorrow. They called out to the charioteer, “Hold back the reins of the horses, go slowly, slowly; we long to see Rāma’s face, which soon will be hard for us to behold.” Amidst the gathering crowd, voices whispered in awe and pain: “Surely the heart of Rāma’s mother must be made of iron, for it does not break as her radiant son, equal to a god, goes to the forest.” They gazed at Sītā, marveling at her unwavering devotion, following her husband like a shadow, never leaving him, steadfast in righteousness as sunlight clings to Mount Meru. Lakṣmaṇa too drew their admiration. “Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, you are truly blessed, for you will serve your gentle brother, godlike in form. Great indeed is your wisdom and fortune; this is the path to heaven, that you follow him.” As they spoke, tears flowed freely, for the people were unable to contain their grief as they followed their beloved Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvāku dynasty. King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and stricken himself, emerged from his house, declaring, “I will see my dear son.” Before him rose the great wailing of the women, echoing like the cries of female elephants mourning their bound leader. The illustrious king, father of Kakutstha, appeared at that moment like the full moon eclipsed by a planet, his radiance dimmed by grief. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, glorious and deep-souled, urged the charioteer, “Drive quickly!” Yet as Rāma commanded, “Go,” the people pleaded, “Stop!”—and the charioteer, pressed by conflicting 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, overcome with weeping, confusion, and 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!” while 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, he urged the charioteer, “Go quickly!” That tiger among men could not bear the sight of his sorrowful father and mother, just as an elephant struck by goads cannot endure the pain. Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, rushed toward him like a cow separated from her calf, weeping and running after the chariot, crying 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 Rāma called, “Go, go!” and Sumantra, the charioteer, 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, Sumantra 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. Now begins the forty-first chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As Rāma, that tiger among men, departed with joined palms, a great cry of anguish arose from the women within the inner chambers. He had been their refuge and protector—where now does their guardian go? He never grew angry, even when insulted, avoided causes for anger, and calmed those who were angry; where does such a one, sorrowful as they, go now? Just as he behaved toward his mother Kausalyā with great energy, so did that great soul behave toward all the royal wives; where indeed is he going? Urged by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyi, 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, righteous and true to his vows, to dwell in the forest. Thus all the royal wives, distressed like cows bereft of calves, wept and cried out aloud in sorrow. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard that terrible sound of anguish within the palace and became deeply distressed. No sacrificial fires were offered, householders did not cook, people neglected their duties, and even the sun disappeared. Elephants released their morsels, cows did not feed their calves, and mothers, having given birth to their firstborn sons, did not rejoice. Such was the sorrow that swept through Ayodhyā as Rāma departed, leaving behind a city plunged into darkness and grief, its hearts yearning for the return of their beloved prince.