As Rāma journeyed away from Ayodhyā, he glanced back and beheld a heart-wrenching sight: his father, King Daśaratha, and his mother, Kausalyā, both stricken with sorrow, following him along the road. Accustomed to lives of comfort, they now walked on foot, their faces shadowed by grief and worry. Witnessing their suffering, Rāma—unable to bear the pain of seeing his beloved parents in such distress—urged the charioteer, Sumantra, to drive the chariot swiftly onwards. The anguish in Rāma’s heart was unbearable, like an elephant tormented by goads. Behind him, Kausalyā, overwhelmed by motherly love and agony, rushed after the speeding chariot, just as a cow, bound and separated from her calf, breaks free to reach it. Weeping and running, she called out desperately, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” Rāma, his heart heavy, looked back again and again at his mother, whose tears fell ceaselessly for the sake of her sons and Sītā, as if she danced in the throes of grief. The king cried out, “Stop!” longing for one last moment with his son, while Rāma pressed, “Go, go!” Sumantra found himself torn, his mind caught between the conflicting commands of father and son, like an object trapped between two turning wheels. Rāma, perceiving his struggle, gently instructed, “Even if the king reproaches you, say you did not hear; for to prolong this suffering would be a great sin.” Heeding Rāma’s words, Sumantra took leave of the grieving people and urged the horses onward, the chariot rolling away from the city. The people of Ayodhyā, after circling Rāma in farewell, turned back with their bodies, but in their hearts, they could not part from him. The ministers, turning to Daśaratha, counseled, “If you wish for his return, let no one follow him far.” Hearing these words, the virtuous yet wretched king, sweating and downcast, stood rooted with his wife at his side, their eyes fixed on their departing son, unable to move or speak. As Rāma, that tiger among men, departed with hands joined in reverence, a great cry of anguish arose from the women within the palace. “He was the refuge and protector of the helpless, the weak, and the ascetic—where does that protector go now?” they lamented. “He never grew angry, even when insulted; he soothed the angry and avoided quarrels—where does one so gentle and noble go now? He showed the same boundless energy and kindness to us as he did to his own mother, Kausalyā—where is he going?” Their sorrow deepened as they realized he was being sent to the forest at the urging of the king, who was afflicted by Kaikeyī’s demands. “Alas, the king has lost his senses and brings ruin to the world by sending righteous, steadfast Rāma to the wilderness.” The royal wives, like cows bereft of their calves, wept and cried out in their distress. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard the terrible wailing within the palace and was overcome by anguish. The city seemed to fall into darkness: no sacrificial fires were offered, householders neglected their meals, and daily duties were forgotten. Even the sun seemed to vanish from the sky. Elephants abandoned their food, cows ignored their calves, and mothers did not rejoice at the birth of their sons. Ominous portents appeared in the heavens: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and other harsh planets gathered around Soma, the moon, assuming dire positions. The stars lost their brilliance, the planets dimmed, and Viśākhā appeared shrouded in smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, Ayodhyā trembled like the ocean churned by a violent black wind. Darkness covered every direction; not a star, planet, or light could be seen. Suddenly, the people of the city were seized by misery. No one cared for food or pleasure; sighs and laments filled the air. Faces were streaked with tears, and not a single person could be found rejoicing—everyone was immersed in sorrow. The winds no longer brought comfort, the moon lost its charm, and the sun’s warmth faded; the entire world was disturbed. Men and women alike, forsaking all else, thought only of Rāma. His friends, overwhelmed by grief, could not sleep or find rest. Ayodhyā, bereft of its great soul, shook like the earth deprived of Indra, its mountains trembling in fear and sorrow. The cries of elephants, warriors, and horses resounded through the city, echoing its distress. As long as the dust raised by Rāma’s chariot was visible, King Daśaratha did not turn his eyes away. The longer he could see his supremely righteous son, the more his longing grew. But when even the dust faded from sight, the king, stricken with unbearable grief, collapsed to the ground. By his side walked Kausalyā, her arms adorned, and on his other side, Kaikeyī, slender-waisted, accompanied him. The king, wise and humble, his senses overwhelmed by sorrow, turned and looked at Kaikeyī, and spoke to her, his heart heavy with pain and loss.