As Rāma departed from Ayodhyā, his mother Kausalyā, her heart aching with separation, rushed toward him like a cow bound and parted from her calf, desperate to be near her beloved son. Tears streamed down her face as she ran behind the chariot, her voice breaking with sorrow as she cried, “Rāma! Alas, Sītā! Lakṣmaṇa!” Rāma, turning again and again, saw his mother’s grief—her tears fell like rain, her body trembling as though she danced in her anguish for her children. In that moment, King Daśaratha called out in agony, “Stop!” But Rāma, resolute in his duty, urged, “Go, go!” Sumantra, the charioteer, found himself torn between the king’s command and Rāma’s, his mind caught like something pressed between two wheels. Rāma counseled him quietly, “If the king rebukes you, say you did not hear; for long suffering is most sinful.” Obeying Rāma, Sumantra took leave of the people and, with a heavy heart, urged the horses forward, even as they departed. The citizens of Ayodhyā, having circled Rāma in farewell, turned back; yet their hearts, swept by powerful emotion, could not truly turn away from him. The ministers, seeing the king’s torment, advised 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 transfixed with his wife, his gaze fixed on his departing son. As Rāma, that tiger among men, left with joined palms, a great cry of anguish rose from the women within the palace. He had been their refuge and protector, the support of the helpless, the weak, and those devoted to asceticism—now, where would their guardian go? He, who never grew angry even when insulted, who soothed the anger of others and avoided all cause for wrath—where was that peerless one, now lost in sorrow, going? Just as he honored his mother Kausalyā, so had he treated all the royal women with energy and kindness; where indeed was such a noble soul headed now? Driven to the forest by the king, himself afflicted by Kaikeyī, where was the world’s protector going? The royal wives, their hearts shattered like cows bereft of their calves, wept and cried out in grief. The king, tormented by longing for his son, heard their terrible lamentations echoing through the palace and was plunged into deeper despair. All of Ayodhyā was cast into mourning: no sacrificial fires were offered, householders did not cook, people neglected their duties, and even the sun seemed to disappear from the sky. Elephants dropped their food uneaten, cows ignored their calves, and mothers felt no joy even at the birth of firstborn sons. Ominous signs appeared in the heavens—Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets approached Soma and took their places; the stars lost their radiance, planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā shone in the sky, veiled in smoke. As Rāma departed, the city itself trembled, like the mighty ocean shaken by a black wind. Darkness covered all directions; neither planet nor star nor any other light was visible. Suddenly, all the people of Ayodhyā were overwhelmed with misery. No one cared for food or pleasure. Sighs and waves of grief swept over the city as everyone lamented for their lord. Tears wet the faces of those on the royal road—no joy could be seen, only sorrow everywhere. The cooling wind did not blow, the moon gave no comfort, the sun no warmth; the whole world seemed disturbed. Women thought only of Rāma, forgetting even sons, husbands, and brothers. All his friends, their minds bewildered and heavy with grief, could not sleep. Ayodhyā, bereft of her great soul, shook like the earth without Indra, seized with fear and sorrow, while the elephants, warriors, and horses roared in distress. As long as the dust from Rāma’s chariot could be seen, King Daśaratha did not withdraw his gaze. The farther he could see his supremely righteous son, the more his longing only grew. But when even the dust vanished from sight, the king, stricken with grief, collapsed to the ground. Kausalyā, her arms adorned, stood at his right side, while Kaikeyī, slender-waisted, was at his left. The king, wise and righteous though overcome by sorrow, looked at Kaikeyī and spoke with pain: “Kaikeyī, do not touch me—you who are resolved on evil. I wish not to see you, neither as wife nor kinswoman. Those who depend on you are not mine, nor am I theirs; you, seeking only your own gain and having abandoned righteousness, are renounced by me. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever sacred fire we circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next.” Thus, the city of Ayodhyā was plunged into darkness and grief as her beloved Rāma departed, and the king, his heart broken, turned away from the wife who had set these sorrows in motion.