As the moment of Rama’s departure approached, the wise ministers gathered around King Dasaratha and spoke with gentle urgency: “If you wish for his return, O King, let no one follow him far.” Their words, filled with loyalty and concern, weighed heavily on Dasaratha’s heart. Overwhelmed by sorrow, the king—renowned for all virtues—stood there, his body trembling with sweat and his face cast down, his queen at his side. Together, they gazed longingly at their beloved son, unable to turn their eyes away. Within the palace, as Rama, that tiger among men, departed with his palms joined in humility, a great wail of anguish arose from the women in the inner chambers. He had always been their refuge and protector, the guardian of those who were helpless, gentle, and devoted to ascetic ways. Now, bereft of his presence, they cried out in despair: “Where does our protector go? He who never grew angry, even when insulted, who soothed the anger of others and avoided all conflict—where is such a one, who shares in our sorrows, going now? With the same boundless energy and love he showed his mother Kausalya, so too did he care for us all. Where indeed does that great soul go?” They lamented, “Driven by the king, afflicted by Kaikeyi’s will, he goes to the forest. Where is the protector of the people, the upholder of dharma, going? Alas, the king has lost his senses, bringing ruin to the world by sending Rama—so righteous and steadfast in his vows—into exile.” Thus, the royal wives, stricken with grief like cows deprived of their calves, wept and cried aloud, their sorrow echoing through the halls. The king, tormented by longing for his son, heard this terrible sound of lamentation within his palace and was plunged into even deeper distress. The entire city of Ayodhya seemed to fall into shadow. No sacrificial fires were offered, householders neglected their cooking, and daily duties were forgotten. Even the sun seemed to vanish from the sky. Elephants let their food fall untouched, cows would not feed their calves, and mothers, though blessed with their firstborn sons, found no joy. Inauspicious omens appeared: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets gathered around Soma and took their places. The stars lost their light, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared in the sky, veiled in smoke. As Rama departed for the forest, the city trembled as if the mighty ocean had been churned by a black, furious wind. Darkness covered all directions; neither planet nor star nor anything else was visible. Suddenly, misery overwhelmed all the people of the city. No one cared for food, nor did any seek pleasure or recreation. Sighs of sorrow rose constantly, and waves of grief swept over everyone as they lamented their lord, the king’s noble son. On the royal road, faces stained with tears, no one could be seen rejoicing—every heart was absorbed in sorrow. The cool wind did not blow, the moon brought no comfort, and the sun gave no warmth; the whole world felt disturbed. Women thought only of Rama, forgetting their sons, husbands, and brothers. All of Rama’s friends, their minds bewildered and heavy with grief, could not even bring themselves to lie down and sleep. Thus, Ayodhya, bereft of its great soul, shook like the earth itself deprived of Indra, seized by terrible fear and sorrow; elephants, warriors, and horses raised their voices in mourning. As long as the dust from Rama’s departing chariot was visible, King Dasaratha, lord of the Ikshvakus, never took his eyes from the road. The longer he gazed upon his supremely righteous son, the more his longing grew. But when even the dust had vanished, grief overcame the king and he collapsed to the ground. By his side, Kausalya—her arms adorned—supported him on the right, while Kaikeyi, slender-waisted, stood on his other side. The king, wise and righteous though deeply distressed, looked upon Kaikeyi and spoke with pain: “Kaikeyi, do not touch me. You, set on evil, are no wife or kin to me. Those who depend on you are not mine, nor am I theirs. You have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and so I renounce you. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever sacred fire we encircled, I release you from all of it—here and hereafter. If Bharata, upon gaining the kingdom, were to give me anything for the sake of his father, let that gift never come to me.” Queen Kausalya, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the dust-covered king and led him away. Dasaratha, tormented like a man who has committed a terrible sin, could not escape his anguish for his son Raghava. Again and again, he turned back, seated along the path where the chariot had gone, his radiance diminished—like the moon swallowed by darkness. Afflicted with sorrow, the king mourned, recalling his beloved son. When he learned that Rama had reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke with anguish: “The tracks of the finest chariots that carried my son are visible on the road, but that great-souled one himself is lost to my sight. He who once slept on beds scented with sandalwood, fanned by women of great worth—my most excellent son—” The king’s voice trailed off, his heart breaking with longing and loss as Ayodhya, its people, and its king were left enveloped in sorrow at Rama’s exile.