As Rāma prepared to depart, the people of Ayodhyā, unable to contain their grief, wept openly as they followed their beloved prince, the very joy of the Ikṣvāku dynasty. Within the palace, King Daśaratha, surrounded by sorrowful women and himself overwhelmed with anguish, rose unsteadily, his heart faint, declaring, "I must see my dear son." As he stepped outside, the wailing of the royal women filled the air—a sound like the cries of female elephants mourning their captured leader. In that moment, the illustrious king, father of Kakutstha, appeared diminished, like the full moon eclipsed by a shadow. Meanwhile, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, radiant and steadfast, urged his charioteer, "Drive quickly!" He called out, "Go!" to the charioteer, while the people pleaded, "Stop!"—leaving the charioteer, pressed from both sides, unable to satisfy either. As the mighty-armed Rāma left, the townspeople’s tears fell like rain, soaking and settling the dust of the earth. The city was overcome with weeping and confusion; cries of "Alas!" echoed everywhere, as Ayodhyā, stricken by Rāghava’s departure, became insensible with sorrow. From the eyes of the women flowed tears born of anguish, like water stirred by fish, moving the lotuses of their faces. When the king saw the city, its people’s hearts fixed on Rāma, he collapsed to the ground in grief, like a tree felled at the root. A tumultuous sound arose behind Rāma as the people gathered, seeing their king so distressed and sinking under the weight of his sorrow. Some cried, "Alas, Rāma!" others called out for Rāma’s mother, and the women within the inner chambers wailed, their lamentations filling the palace. Looking back, Rāma saw his parents—his father, the king, and his mother—following him on foot, their minds clouded with grief and dejection. Seeing his parents, accustomed to comfort but now suffering and walking barefoot, 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 cannot endure the pain of goads. Just as a cow, bound and separated from her calf, rushes toward her beloved offspring, so did Rāma’s mother, Kausalyā, run after him, weeping and calling out, "Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!" Again and again, Rāma looked back at his mother, who, for the sake of her sons and Sītā, shed tears as if she were dancing in grief. The king shouted, "Stop!" but Rāghava called, "Go, go!" Sumantra, the charioteer, found his mind caught between these opposing commands, like something trapped between two wheels. Rāma reassured 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 as they departed. The people circled Rāma before turning back, but though their bodies returned, their hearts remained with him, moved by deep emotion. The ministers then said to King Daśaratha, "Let no one follow him further, if you wish for his return." Hearing these words, the virtuous but wretched king, sweating and downcast, stood with his wife, gazing longingly after his son. Now begins the forty-first chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As that tiger among men departed with joined palms, a great cry of anguish rose from the women within the inner chambers. "He was our refuge and protector," they mourned, "the support of the helpless, the weak, the ascetics—where will our protector go now? He never grew angry when insulted, avoided all causes for anger, and soothed those who were angry—where does such a one, equal in sorrow, go now? Just as he behaves toward his mother Kausalyā with devotion, so did that great soul behave toward us; where indeed is he going? Urged by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyi, he goes to the forest—where is the world’s protector going?" They lamented the king’s senselessness, grieving that he had brought ruin to the living world by sending away Rāma, who was righteous and true to his vows. All the royal wives, distressed like cows bereft of their calves, wept aloud in their sorrow. Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his son, heard the terrible wailing within the palace and was deeply distressed. Throughout Ayodhyā, sacrificial fires were left unoffered, householders did not cook, people neglected their duties, and even the sun seemed to disappear from the sky. Elephants released their morsels uneaten, cows refused to feed their calves, and mothers, even after giving birth to their firstborn sons, did not rejoice. Ominous signs appeared in the heavens: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets gathered near Soma and took their positions. The stars lost their radiance, the planets their brilliance, and the constellation Viśākhā appeared shrouded in smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, the city trembled like the great ocean stirred by a black wind. All directions were thrown into confusion, darkness seemed to cover everything; neither planet nor star nor any other sign could be seen. Suddenly, all the people of the city were overcome with misery—no one cared for food or recreation, for Ayodhyā’s heart had left with Rāma.