As Rama, the embodiment of righteousness and steadfastness, was sent into exile, a wave of anguish swept through Ayodhya. The king, lost in his own bewilderment, had brought calamity upon the living world by commanding Rama to dwell in the forest. Within the palace, the royal wives, bereft of hope and grieving like cows separated from their calves, wept aloud, their cries echoing in sorrow. King Dasharatha, tormented by longing for his son, heard this terrible sound of lamentation and was deeply distressed. The city itself seemed to halt in its tracks; no sacrificial fires were kindled, householders neglected their cooking, duties were forgotten, and even the sun vanished from sight. Elephants abandoned their food, cows ignored their calves, and mothers did not rejoice at the birth of their firstborn sons. In the heavens, ominous signs appeared: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and other harsh planets converged upon Soma, taking up their positions. The stars lost their radiance, planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā was seen in the sky shrouded in smoke. As Rama departed for the forest, the city trembled like the great ocean disturbed by a fierce, dark wind. All directions were enveloped in darkness; neither planets, stars, nor anything else could be seen. Suddenly, misery overtook all the people of the city; no one cared for food or recreation. Sighs and waves of grief filled Ayodhya, as its people lamented for their beloved lord. Along the royal road, faces streaked with tears, no joy was to be found—everyone was absorbed in sorrow. The cool wind ceased to blow, the moon lost its gentle glow, the sun no longer warmed; the whole world seemed unsettled. Women’s sons, husbands, and brothers, though not seeking anything, abandoned all else and thought only of Rama. His friends, overwhelmed and bewildered by grief, could not even rest or sleep. Ayodhya, bereft of Rama’s great soul, shook like the earth deprived of Indra, ignited by terrible fear and sorrow. Elephants, warriors, and horses roared in distress. As Rama’s chariot rolled away, the dust raised by his departure lingered in the air, and King Dasharatha, the lord of the Ikshvakus, could not tear his gaze away. As long as he could see his beloved, supremely righteous son, his yearning only grew. But when even the dust vanished from sight, the king, stricken with grief, collapsed to the ground. Kausalya, adorned and dignified, walked at his right side, and Kaikeyi, slender-waisted, accompanied him at his other. The king, wise and humble but distressed in his senses, looked at Kaikeyi and spoke bitterly: “Kaikeyi, do not touch me—you who are resolved upon evil. I do not wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kinswoman. Those who depend on you—I am not theirs, nor are they mine. You care only for your own gain, having abandoned righteousness; 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, upon gaining the kingdom, were to offer me anything for his father’s sake, let not that gift come to me.” Queen Kausalya, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the king who had fallen and withdrew. Dasharatha, tormented like one who has slain a Brahmin out of desire or touched fire with his hand, could not escape his anguish for his son Raghava. Again and again, he turned back, seated along the chariot’s path, his appearance diminished like the moon whose light is swallowed. Afflicted with sorrow, he lamented, recalling his beloved son. Learning that Rama had reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke: “The tracks of the finest vehicles that carried my son are visible here, but that great-souled one himself is not seen. He who used to sleep comfortably on beds scented with sandalwood, fanned by women of great worth—my most excellent son—today, surely, somewhere, he must be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable, covered in dust, sighing deeply, like a lordly elephant emerging from a lotus pond. Surely, the forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rama, the lord of the people, walking forth as if he were without protection. That beloved daughter of Janaka, accustomed to comfort, will now, weary from treading on thorns, go to the forest. Unfamiliar with the forests, she will surely experience fear, hearing the deep, hair-raising roars of wild beasts. Be satisfied, Kaikeyi—live as a widow and rule the kingdom; for without that tiger among men, I cannot endure life.” Thus lamenting, the king, surrounded by a multitude of people, entered his splendid house as one who has bathed after misfortune. He saw the city with its courtyards and houses empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and its great roads deserted. This marks the forty-second chapter of the Ayodhyākāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.