As Rāma made his way from Ayodhyā, a tumultuous clamor arose behind him. The people, seeing their beloved king Daśaratha overcome with sorrow and distress, gathered together in great agitation. Cries of “Alas, Rāma!” echoed through the crowd, while others called out for “O Rāma’s mother!” Within the palace’s inner chambers, the women wailed and lamented loudly, their voices filled with anguish. Rāma glanced back and saw both his father, the king, and his mother, Kausalyā, following after him on the road, their hearts heavy with grief and their minds troubled. Accustomed to every comfort, yet now suffering and forced to walk on foot, his parents’ sorrowful state pained Rāma deeply. He urged the charioteer Sumantra, “Go quickly!” For Rāma, that tiger among men, could not bear to witness the agony of his father and mother, just as an elephant cannot endure the pain of the goad. Kausalyā, overcome with grief for her son, rushed after the chariot with the desperate longing of a cow separated from her calf. Weeping and running, she cried out, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” Again and again, Rāma looked back at his mother, who shed tears for him, for Lakṣmaṇa, and for Sītā—her sorrow as constant as a dancer’s movements, her eyes pouring water like a river of grief. The king called out, “Stop!” but Rāma urged, “Go, go!” Sumantra found himself torn, caught between the opposing commands of father and son, his mind as if trapped between two turning wheels. Rāma then spoke to him gently, “Even if the king reproaches you, say you did not hear; for to prolong this suffering would be most sinful.” Obeying Rāma’s words and taking leave of the people, Sumantra quickly urged the horses onward, and the chariot sped away. The people, hearts full of emotion, circled Rāma one last time before turning back, but in their souls, they could not part from him. The ministers then advised King Daśaratha, “If you wish for Rāma’s return, let no one follow him far.” Hearing these words, the king—righteous and virtuous, yet now wretched and sweating with sorrow—stood with his wife, gazing after his departing son, his heart breaking. As Rāma departed with palms joined in farewell, a great cry of anguish arose from the women within the palace. He had always been their refuge and protector, especially to the helpless and the weak—where now was that sheltering presence going? He was never angered by insult, avoided all cause for wrath, and soothed those who were angry; in sorrow, he was equal to all. Where, they wondered, could such a noble soul be going now? The royal wives grieved as deeply as cows bereft of their calves. “Urged by the king, who is afflicted by Kaikeyī, he goes to the forest; where indeed is the protector of the world going?” they cried. “Alas, the king, blinded by grief and confusion, brings ruin upon the world of the living by sending away Rāma, who is righteous and true to his vows.” Their lamentations filled the palace, echoing in waves of sorrow. King Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his son, heard these terrible cries and became even more distressed. The city itself seemed to share in the sorrow: no sacrificial fires were offered, householders neglected their meals and duties, and even the sun seemed to disappear from the sky. Elephants let their food drop from their mouths, cows would not feed their calves, and mothers, even those who had just given birth to their firstborn sons, found no joy in their children. Ominous signs appeared in the heavens: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets gathered near Soma and took their places. The stars lost their radiance, the planets their brilliance, and the constellation Viśākhā appeared shrouded in smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, the entire city of Ayodhyā trembled, as if the great ocean itself were stirred by a mighty black wind. All directions were disturbed, covered in darkness; neither planet nor star nor anything else could be seen. Suddenly, misery overtook all the people of the city. No one cared for food or for any pleasure. Sighing deeply, afflicted by waves of grief, the people of Ayodhyā lamented for their beloved lord of the earth. Along the royal road, faces wet with tears, no one was seen rejoicing; all were lost in sorrow. The cool wind did not blow, the moon was not pleasant to behold, the sun did not warm—the whole world seemed disturbed. Women’s sons, husbands, and brothers, though not seeking anything, abandoned all other thoughts and cared only for Rāma. All of Rāma’s friends, their minds bewildered and overwhelmed by grief, could not even bring themselves to lie down and sleep. Thus, Ayodhyā, bereft of its great soul, shook like the earth deprived of Indra, ignited by terrible fear and sorrow, while the elephants, warriors, and horses roared in confusion. As long as the dust from Rāma’s departing chariot was visible, King Daśaratha, lord of the Ikṣvāku dynasty, did not turn his eyes away. For as long as he could see his supremely righteous son, his longing only grew. But when even the dust was no longer visible, the king, stricken with unbearable grief, collapsed to the ground, overcome by the sorrow of separation from his beloved son.