Surrounded by sorrowful women, King Daśaratha, himself stricken and faint of heart, emerged from his house, uttering, “I will see my dear son.” As he stepped out, the air was filled with the great wailing of the women, their cries echoing like the anguished calls of female elephants when their mighty leader is bound. At that moment, the illustrious king—the father of Kakutstha—appeared diminished, like the full moon eclipsed by a planet, his radiance obscured by grief. Meanwhile, Rāma, the son of Daśaratha, glorious and of unfathomable soul, urged his charioteer, “Drive quickly!” He called out, “Go,” even as the people pleaded, “Stop!” But the charioteer, pressed onward by the urgency of the moment, could do neither, torn between the commands of the prince and the cries of the people. As mighty-armed Rāma departed, tears fell from the townspeople, soaking the dust of the earth and laying it low. The city was overcome—filled with weeping, tears, and confusion, cries of “Alas!” resounding everywhere. Ayodhyā 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 in the ponds. When the illustrious king saw the city, its people’s 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 their king sinking in distress, gathered in sorrow. Some cried, “Alas, Rāma!” others wailed for Rāma’s mother, and those within the inner chambers lamented loudly. Rāma looked back and saw his father and mother following him on the road, their minds troubled and dejected. Seeing his parents—once 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 parents, just as an elephant struck by goads cannot endure the pain. Just as a cow, bound and separated from her calf, runs toward her calf, so did Rāma’s mother, Kausalyā, rush after him. Weeping and running after the chariot, she 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!” Sumantra, the charioteer, was caught between their commands, his mind torn like something trapped between two wheels. Rāma counseled 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, the wretched king, sweating and downcast, stood with his wife, gazing at his son as he departed. Listen now to 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—these helpless, weak, and ascetic people. Where now did their protector go? He never grew angry, even when insulted; he avoided causes for anger and calmed all who were angry. Where does such a one, equal in sorrow, go now? Just as he behaved toward his mother Kausalyā with great energy, so did that great soul behave toward all the women of the palace. Where indeed was he going? Urged by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyi, he went to the forest. Where indeed was the protector of these people, of the world, going? “Alas,” they cried, “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 aloud in sorrow. King Daśaratha, 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 seemed to disappear. Elephants released their morsels, cows did not feed their calves, and mothers, having given birth to their firstborn sons, did not rejoice. The planets—Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh ones—approached Soma and took their positions. The stars lost their radiance, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared in the sky with smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, the city shook like the great ocean stirred by the force of a black wind. All directions were disturbed, covered as if by darkness; neither planet nor star nor anything else was visible. Suddenly, all the people of the city were overcome with misery; no one paid attention to food or recreation. Constantly sighing deeply, afflicted by waves of grief, all the people of Ayodhyā lamented for the lord of the earth, their beloved Rāma.