As Rāma prepared to depart, he turned to his charioteer and commanded, “Go,” while the people of Ayodhyā cried out, “Stop!” Caught between the desperate pleas of the townsfolk and Rāma’s resolute command, the charioteer, pressed onward, found himself unable to obey either fully. As Rāma, mighty-armed and steadfast, left the city, the tears of the townspeople fell upon the earth, soaking its dust and laying it low. Ayodhyā itself was overwhelmed—its streets filled with weeping, confusion, and cries of “Alas!” The city seemed to lose its senses, so afflicted was it by Rāghava’s departure. Women, their hearts pierced by anguish, shed tears that flowed like water stirred by fish, disturbing the lotuses in their midst. When the illustrious King Daśaratha saw his city, its people’s minds fixed solely on Rāma, grief struck him down; he fell to the ground like a tree severed at its roots. Behind Rāma, a tumultuous sound arose as the people gathered, witnessing their king’s collapse and distress. Some cried out, “Alas, Rāma!” while others called, “O Rāma’s mother!” Within the palace chambers, the royal women wailed and lamented loudly. Rāma looked back and saw his father and mother, both following him on the road, their minds troubled and dejected. Seeing his parents—who had always known comfort but now suffered, forced to walk on foot—Rāma urged the charioteer, “Go quickly!” The sorrowful sight of his father and mother was unbearable to Rāma, like an elephant struck by goads cannot endure the pain. Kausalyā, his mother, weeping and running after the chariot, rushed toward him like a cow separated from her calf, crying out, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” Again and again, Rāma looked back at his mother, who, for his sake and that of Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, shed tears as if she were dancing in grief. The king called out, “Stop!” but Rāghava insisted, “Go, go!” Sumantra, the charioteer, was caught between these opposing commands, his mind torn like something caught between two wheels. Rāma advised 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, after circling Rāma in farewell, turned back, yet their hearts, moved by swift emotion, did not let go of him. The ministers spoke to King Daśaratha, “Let no one follow him far, if you wish for his return.” Hearing these words, the wretched king, sweating and downcast, stood with his wife, gazing sorrowfully at his son. As the forty-first chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, begins, Rāma, with palms joined in reverence, departed. A great cry of anguish arose from the women within the palace. He had been their refuge and protector—helpless, weak, ascetic souls—where was their protector going now? Rāma, who never grew angry even when insulted, avoided causes for anger, and calmed those who were angry, was leaving; where would such a one, equal in sorrow, go? He treated his mother Kausalyā with great energy and respect, and so did he behave toward all the royal women. Driven by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyi, he was going to the forest; where was the protector of the people, of the world, going? Alas, the king, senseless and bringing ruin to the living world, sent Rāma—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. King Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his son, heard the terrible sound of anguish from within the palace and became deeply distressed. No sacrificial fires were offered, householders neglected cooking, people abandoned 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. Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets approached Soma and took their positions. The stars lost their radiance, planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared in the sky shrouded in smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, the city of Ayodhyā shook like the great ocean stirred by 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; none paid attention to food or recreation. Constantly sighing deeply, afflicted by waves of grief, all the people of Ayodhyā lamented for their lord. On the royal road, faces wet with tears, none were seen rejoicing; everyone was absorbed in sorrow. The cool wind did not blow, the moon was not pleasant to behold, the sun did not warm; the whole world was disturbed. Women’s sons, husbands, and brothers, though not seeking anything, abandoned everything and thought only of Rāma. All those who were Rāma’s friends, their minds bewildered and overwhelmed by grief, did not even lie down to sleep.