As Rāma departed from Ayodhyā, the city was plunged into grief. Cries of “Alas, Rāma!” and “O Rāma’s mother!” echoed through the streets, while the women within the inner chambers wailed in anguish, their voices rising in sorrow. Rāma, looking back from his chariot, saw his father, King Daśaratha, and his mother Kausalyā, both following him on foot along the road, their hearts heavy and their faces marked by deep distress. The sight of his parents—who had always lived in comfort but were now forced to walk, suffering for his sake—filled Rāma with pain. He urged the charioteer Sumantra, “Go quickly!” Unable to bear the agony reflected in his father and mother’s faces, Rāma was like an elephant tormented by the goad, unable to endure the pain. But Kausalyā, overcome by love and sorrow, rushed after the chariot as a cow runs to her calf when separated. She wept and cried out, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” running after them, her grief as wild as a dance. Rāma turned again and again to look at his mother, seeing her tears flow like water as she mourned for him, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa. The king called out, “Stop!” but Rāma urged, “Go, go!” Sumantra, caught between the king’s command and Rāma’s plea, felt as if he were trapped between two turning wheels. Rāma gently instructed him, “If the king reproaches you, say you did not hear; for long suffering is most sinful.” Obeying Rāma and taking leave of the people, Sumantra urged the horses onward and the chariot moved away. The people of Ayodhyā circled Rāma in farewell, but though their bodies turned back, their hearts remained with him, torn by emotion. The ministers advised King Daśaratha, “If you wish for Rāma’s return, let no one follow him far.” Hearing their words, the king—noble and virtuous, yet now wretched and sweating with grief—stood silently with Kausalyā, gazing after his beloved son. As Rāma, that tiger among men, departed with hands folded in respect, a great cry of anguish rose from the women in the inner chambers. He was their protector and refuge—the one who cared for the helpless and the weak, who brought comfort to all. Now, where would that protector go? He who never grew angry even when insulted, who avoided all cause for anger and soothed those who were upset, who treated all, including his mother Kausalyā, with the same boundless compassion—where was such a soul now headed? Driven to the forest by his father, afflicted by Kaikeyī’s demands, where was the world’s protector going? The royal wives lamented, their grief like cows bereft of their calves, and their cries filled the palace. King Daśaratha, tormented by sorrow for his son, heard their wailing and was plunged deeper into despair. The city itself seemed to mourn: no sacrificial fires were lit, householders neglected their meals and duties, and even the sun seemed to disappear from the sky. Elephants dropped their food, cows would not feed their calves, and mothers who had just given birth did not rejoice. In the heavens, ominous signs appeared. Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and other harsh planets moved toward Soma, taking their positions. The stars lost their brilliance, planets grew dim, and Viśākhā was veiled in smoke. As Rāma left for the forest, Ayodhyā shook as if the great ocean were stirred by a black wind. Darkness covered all directions, and neither planet nor star could be seen. A wave of misery swept over the people. No one cared for food or pleasure; all were lost in grief for Rāma. Sighs and lamentations filled the air, and tears ran down the faces of those lining the royal road. No one rejoiced; all hearts were heavy. The cool wind did not blow, the moon lost its soothing light, the sun’s warmth vanished, and the world itself was disturbed. Women, abandoning all else, thought only of Rāma—their sons, husbands, and brothers were forgotten. Rāma’s friends, overwhelmed by sorrow, could not even bring themselves to sleep. Thus, Ayodhyā, bereft of its great soul, trembled like the earth without Indra, seized by fear and misery. The city’s elephants, warriors, and horses raised a mournful clamor, echoing the people’s pain. As long as the dust from Rāma’s chariot was visible, King Daśaratha did not lower his gaze. The farther he could see his supremely righteous son, the more his longing grew. But when even the dust had vanished from sight, the king, stricken with unbearable grief, collapsed to the ground. At his side, Kausalyā, her arms adorned, remained steadfast, and on his other side, Kaikeyī, slender-waisted, accompanied him—both queens sharing in the king’s sorrow as they gazed into the empty road where Rāma had disappeared.