After the people of Ayodhya had reverently circled Rāma, their bodies turned away, but their hearts, swept by a tide of emotion, clung to him still. In the midst of this sorrow, the ministers approached King Daśaratha and counseled him, “If you wish for Rāma’s return, let no one follow him far.” The king, virtuous yet wretched, stood there sweating and downcast, his gaze fixed upon his departing son, his wife by his side. As Rāma—lion among men—departed with palms joined in farewell, a great cry of anguish rose from the women within the palace’s inner chambers. To them, he had been their refuge and protector in their helplessness and weakness, gentle as an ascetic—where now was that guardian going? They remembered how he never grew angry, even when insulted, how he soothed the anger of others, and bore his own sorrows with equanimity. Where could such a one be headed now? Just as he served his mother Kausalya with tireless devotion, so too did he care for all the royal women—where indeed was he now bound? Driven away by the king, who was himself afflicted and swayed by Kaikeyi, Rāma was going to the forest. The women mourned, “Where is the protector of the people, the world’s guardian, going?” They lamented the king’s senselessness, for by sending righteous, steadfast Rāma into exile, he was bringing calamity upon the living world. Their cries echoed through the palace, the royal wives weeping like cows bereft of their calves. King Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his son, heard the terrible wailing from within and was plunged into deeper distress. Across Ayodhya, the sacred fires were left unoffered, householders neglected their daily tasks, and even the sun seemed to vanish from the sky. Elephants let their food fall uneaten, cows would not nurse their calves, and mothers, even after giving birth to their firstborn sons, found no joy. Inauspicious omens appeared: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets gathered near Soma and took ominous positions. The stars lost their luster, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā was seen in the sky shrouded in smoke. As Rāma set out for the forest, the city of Ayodhya trembled as if the ocean itself had been churned by a black wind. Darkness seemed to cover all directions; planets, stars, and all things vanished from sight. Suddenly, misery overtook the people—no one cared for food or pleasure. Sighs and sobs filled the air, waves of grief breaking over the city as all lamented the loss of their lord. On the royal road, faces streaked with tears, the people could not rejoice; sorrow enveloped everyone. The cool wind ceased, the moon lost its charm, the sun gave no warmth—the whole world seemed unmoored. Women’s sons, husbands, and brothers, though seeking nothing, abandoned all else and thought only of Rāma. His friends, their minds clouded and hearts heavy with grief, could not even bring themselves to sleep. Thus, Ayodhya, bereft of its great soul, trembled like the earth without its mountains, like a kingdom deprived of Indra, seized by dreadful fear and sorrow. The roars of elephants, warriors, and horses filled the air, echoing the city’s pain. As long as the dust from Rāma’s chariot lingered in the air, King Daśaratha did not avert his gaze. The longer he could see even a trace of his supremely righteous son, the more his longing grew. But when the dust itself faded and Rāma was lost to sight, the grief-stricken king collapsed to the ground. At his right side walked Kausalya, her arms adorned; on his left, Kaikeyi, slender-waisted, accompanied him. In his anguish, the wise and righteous king turned to Kaikeyi and spoke: “Kaikeyi, do not touch me—you who have chosen evil. I wish not to see you, neither as wife nor kin. Those who depend on you are not mine, nor am I theirs. You have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and I renounce you. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever sacred fires we circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. If Bharata, having gained this imperishable kingdom, should offer me anything as a son to his father, let that gift never reach me.” Queen Kausalya, herself consumed by sorrow, gently raised the fallen, dust-covered king and withdrew. Daśaratha, tormented as though he had sinned gravely or touched fire, could think only of his beloved son Rāma. Time and again he looked back, sitting forlorn along the path of the chariot, his presence faded like the moon whose light has been swallowed. Afflicted with sorrow, he lamented, recalling his son. When he learned that Rāma had reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke in grief: “I see the tracks of the finest vehicles that carried my son on the road, but the great-souled one himself is nowhere to be seen.