As Rāma’s chariot moved through the streets, a great wailing rose ahead of him—the anguished cries of the women echoed like the desperate trumpeting of female elephants when their mighty leader is bound. In the midst of this heart-rending scene stood the illustrious King Daśaratha, father of the Kakutstha line, his radiance dimmed; he appeared as forlorn as the full moon eclipsed by a dark planet. Rāma, the noble son of Daśaratha, his soul deep and unfathomable, urged the charioteer Sumantra, “Drive quickly!” Even as Rāma called out, “Go!” the people of Ayodhyā cried, “Stop!”—but Sumantra, caught between their desperate pleas and Rāma’s command, could do neither, torn by the sorrow of the moment. As the mighty-armed Rāma departed, the tears of the townspeople fell upon the earth, soaking the dust and laying it low beneath the weight of their grief. The city was overwhelmed: weeping, confusion, and the cries of “Alas!” filled the air. Ayodhyā, stricken by Rāghava’s departure, seemed to lose all sense, engulfed in sorrow. From the eyes of the women flowed streams of tears, born of deep anguish, like waters stirred by fish, disturbing the lotuses. When the illustrious king saw his city, its people’s hearts fixed on Rāma, he was overcome by grief and fell to the ground, like a great tree cut at the root. A tumultuous sound rose behind Rāma as the people, witnessing their king’s collapse and distress, gathered together in alarm. Some cried out, “Alas, Rāma!” Others lamented, “O Rāma’s mother!” Within the inner chambers, the royal women wailed, their voices carrying their sorrow throughout the palace. Rāma, glancing back, saw his father and mother following him on foot, their faces clouded with distress and dejection. Unable to bear the sight of his parents—accustomed to comfort yet now suffering and walking after him—he urged Sumantra again, “Go quickly!” The pain in Rāma’s heart was sharp, like an elephant struck by goads, unable to endure the suffering of his beloved parents. Just as a cow, bound and separated from her calf, rushes desperately toward her young, so did Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, run after the chariot, weeping and crying out, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” Rāma turned again and again to look at his mother, who, overcome by grief for her son, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā, shed tears as if she danced in her sorrow. The king shouted, “Stop!” but Rāma called out, “Go, go!” Sumantra’s mind was caught between their opposing commands, like something trapped between two wheels. Rāma reassured him, “Even if the king reproaches you, say you did not hear; for to prolong suffering is most sinful.” Obeying Rāma’s words and taking leave of the grieving people, Sumantra urged the horses onward, and the chariot sped away. The people turned back, having circled Rāma in farewell, but their hearts, swept by powerful emotion, could not turn away from him. The ministers then spoke to King Daśaratha, “If you wish for Rāma’s return, let no one follow him far.” Hearing their words, the virtuous but wretched king, sweating and downcast, stood with his wife, his gaze fixed longingly upon his departing son. Now, listen to the next chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As Rāma, that tiger among men, went forth with hands joined in farewell, a great cry of anguish arose from the women within the inner chambers. He was their refuge, their protector—these helpless, gentle, and ascetic souls—where now did their guardian go? Rāma, who never grew angry even when insulted, who soothed those who were angry, and who avoided all cause for discord—where was such a one, equal in sorrow, now bound? Just as he had always shown great energy and devotion toward his mother Kausalyā, so did he treat all the royal women with kindness; where indeed was he going, leaving them behind? Urged by the king, who himself was afflicted by Kaikeyī, Rāma was going to the forest—where was the protector of these people, of the world, going now? “Alas,” they cried, “the king has lost his senses, bringing ruin to the world of the living, sending away 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 aloud in sorrow. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard that terrible sound of anguish rising from the palace and became deeply distressed. Throughout the city, no sacrificial fires were offered, householders neglected their cooking, people abandoned their duties, and even the sun seemed to disappear from the sky. Elephants released their food uneaten, cows did not feed their calves, and mothers, having given birth to firstborn sons, could not rejoice. Inauspicious omens appeared: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets approached Soma and took their places. The stars lost their radiance, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared in the sky, shrouded with smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, the city of Ayodhyā trembled, 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 cared for food or recreation. Sighs and lamentations filled the air as waves of sorrow swept over Ayodhyā. The people on the royal road, their faces wet with tears, could not be seen rejoicing—everyone was absorbed in grief for the beloved lord of the earth, Rāma.