As Rama departed for the forest, the palace of Ayodhya was overcome by sorrow. The royal wives, distraught and anguished like cows bereft of their calves, wept aloud, their cries echoing through the corridors. King Dasharatha, tormented by grief for his beloved son, heard this terrible wailing within his palace and was plunged into even deeper distress. Throughout the city, the normal rhythms of life came to a halt. No sacrificial fires were kindled, householders abandoned their cooking, people neglected their daily duties, and even the sun seemed to vanish from the sky. Elephants let their food fall uneaten, cows turned away from their calves, and mothers, even those who had just given birth to their firstborn sons, found no joy in the moment. In the heavens, ominous signs appeared: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets moved towards Soma and took up their positions, while the stars lost their brilliance and Viśākhā glimmered in the sky, shrouded in smoke. As Rama’s chariot rolled away, the city itself seemed to tremble, like the great ocean stirred by a fierce black wind. Darkness covered all directions, obscuring planets, stars, and every familiar sight. Suddenly, the people of Ayodhya were seized by overwhelming misery—no one cared for food or pleasure. Sighs and deep laments filled the air, as waves of grief washed over everyone, and the citizens mourned for their lord, the protector of the earth. On the royal road, faces were streaked with tears; there was no joy, only sorrow. The cool wind refused to blow, the moon lost its soothing glow, and the sun gave no warmth. The world itself seemed disturbed. Women, their sons, husbands, and brothers—though they sought nothing for themselves—gave up everything, thinking only of Rama. Rama’s friends, bewildered by grief, could not even bring themselves to lie down and sleep. Ayodhya, bereft of its great soul, trembled like the earth and its mountains when deprived of mighty Indra, consumed by fear and sorrow. The city resounded with the cries of elephants, warriors, and horses, all echoing the pain of loss. As Rama’s chariot disappeared into the distance, King Dasharatha stood watching, his gaze fixed as long as the dust of his son’s departure remained visible. The longer he could see Rama, righteous and beloved, the more his longing grew. But when even the dust had faded from view, the king, stricken with unbearable grief, collapsed to the ground. At his side walked Queen Kausalya, her arms adorned, and on his other side was Kaikeyi, slender-waisted. The wise and humble king, his senses overwhelmed by sorrow, turned to Kaikeyi and spoke in anguish: “Kaikeyi, do not touch me—you who are set on evil. I wish to see you neither as wife nor kin. Those who depend on you—I am not theirs, nor are they mine; you have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and I renounce you. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever sacred fire we circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. If Bharata, having gained this imperishable kingdom, were to give me anything as a son to his father, let not that gift come to me.” Queen Kausalya, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the king, who was covered in dust and had fallen in his sorrow. Like one who has committed a great sin or touched fire, the righteous king was tormented by thoughts of his son Raghava. Again and again he looked back, sitting along the chariot’s path, his appearance faded and diminished, like the moon when its light is swallowed. Afflicted by sorrow, the king lamented as he learned that Rama had now reached the outskirts of the city. “The marks of the finest chariots that carried my son are still visible on the road, but the great-souled one himself is gone. He who once slept on beds perfumed with sandalwood, fanned by graceful women—my most excellent son—today must surely be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or perhaps on stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable, covered in dust, sighing deeply, like a mighty elephant emerging from a lotus pond. Surely, the forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rama, lord of the people, walking forth as if unprotected. “And Sita, the beloved daughter of Janaka, used to every comfort, will now, weary from walking on thorns, enter the forest. Unfamiliar with the wilds, she will surely be frightened by 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 grieving multitude, entered his splendid house, like one who has bathed after a great misfortune. He saw the city—its courtyards and houses empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and the great roads deserted. Beholding all of Ayodhya, its people thinking only of Rama, the king entered his house, lamenting, like the sun vanishing behind a cloud.