Obeying Rāma’s gentle command, the charioteer took leave of the gathered people and quickly urged the horses onward, beginning their journey. Though the citizens circled Rāma in farewell and then turned back, their hearts, stirred by deep emotion, could not truly turn away from him. The ministers, seeing the pain of separation, spoke to King Daśaratha: “If you wish for Rāma’s return, let no one follow him far.” Hearing these words, the virtuous but grief-stricken king—sweating and downcast—stood with his wife, gazing helplessly at his beloved son. As Rāma, the tiger among men, departed with hands joined in reverence, a great cry of anguish arose from the women within the palace chambers. He had been their refuge and protector, especially to those who were vulnerable, weak, and ascetic; now, where would their protector go? Rāma was never angry even when insulted, avoided all causes for anger, and calmed the anger of others; such a one, who shared their sorrows, was leaving—where was he going? Just as Rāma had always treated his mother Kausalya with tireless energy and devotion, so too had he been toward all the royal women; now, where was this great soul headed? Urged by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyi’s demands, Rāma was going to the forest—where was the world’s protector going? The king, senseless with grief, was bringing ruin to the living world by sending righteous, steadfast Rāma away to dwell in the forest. All the royal wives, distressed like cows bereft of their calves, wept aloud in sorrow. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard the terrible sound of anguish echoing through the palace and became deeply distressed. Throughout Ayodhya, sacrificial fires were left unoffered, householders did not cook, duties were neglected, and even the sun seemed to disappear. Elephants dropped their food, cows did not feed their calves, and mothers who had just given birth to their firstborn sons felt no joy. Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets approached Soma and took their positions, as if nature itself mourned. The stars lost their radiance, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared in the sky shrouded with smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, the city 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 could be seen. Suddenly, misery overtook all the people of the city; no one cared for food or recreation. Sighing deeply, afflicted by waves of grief, the people of Ayodhya lamented for their lord. On the royal road, faces were wet with tears; no one rejoiced, all were absorbed in sorrow. The cool wind no longer blew, the moon was not pleasant to see, the sun did not warm—the whole world was disturbed. Sons, husbands, and brothers, though not seeking anything, abandoned all and thought only of Rāma. All of Rāma’s friends, their minds bewildered and overwhelmed by grief, could not even lie down to sleep. Ayodhya, bereft of its great soul, shook like the earth with its mountains deprived of Indra, ignited by terrible fear and sorrow. The city’s elephants, warriors, and horses roared in distress. As long as the dust raised by Rāma’s departing chariot was visible, King Daśaratha did not withdraw his gaze. For as long as he could see his supremely righteous son, his longing to see Rāma only grew stronger. But when even the dust faded from sight, the king, stricken with grief, collapsed to the ground. Kausalya, her arms adorned, followed at his right side, and Kaikeyi, slender-waisted, accompanied him at the other. The wise, righteous, and humble king, his senses distressed, looked at Kaikeyi and spoke bitterly: “Kaikeyi, do not touch me—you who are resolved on evil. I do not wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kinswoman. Those who live dependent on you—I am not theirs, nor are they mine; for you are concerned only with your own gain, abandoning righteousness, and I renounce you. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever fire I circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. If Bharata, having obtained the kingdom, were to give me anything for the sake of his father, let not that gift come to me.” Then Queen Kausalya, consumed by grief, raised the fallen king, who was covered in dust, and withdrew. The righteous king was tormented, thinking of his son Raghava, like one who has slain a Brahmin out of desire or touched fire with his hand. Again and again, he turned back, seated along the chariot’s path, his appearance diminished like the moon when its light is swallowed. Afflicted with sorrow, Daśaratha lamented, recalling his beloved son. Learning that Rāma had reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke, his heart weighed down by grief and longing.