Tormented by overwhelming grief for his son, King Daśaratha sat in his palace, his heart pierced by the anguished cries that echoed through the royal chambers. The sorrow was so profound that the entire city of Ayodhya seemed to fall under its shadow. No sacrificial fires were kindled, householders neglected to prepare their meals, and daily duties were forgotten. Even the sun itself seemed to vanish from the heavens. In the animal world, too, the sorrow was palpable—elephants let their food fall uneaten, cows did not nurse their calves, and mothers who had just given birth to their firstborn sons found no joy in their blessings. In the sky, ill omens gathered: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets converged upon Soma, taking up their positions. The stars lost their luster, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared shrouded in smoke. As Rāma departed for the forest, the city trembled like the ocean lashed by a black and furious wind. Darkness seemed to swallow the directions, obscuring planets, stars, and all things from sight. Suddenly, a wave of misery swept over the people of Ayodhya—no one cared for food, no one sought diversion. Sighs of sorrow rose unceasingly as the people, battered by grief, mourned for their beloved lord. On the royal road, faces glistened with tears; no one rejoiced, for all were lost in sorrow. The gentle wind ceased to blow, the moon lost its soothing glow, and the sun no longer warmed the earth—indeed, the entire world was disturbed. Women, thinking only of Rāma, saw their sons, husbands, and brothers forsake all else. Rāma’s friends, their minds bewildered by the weight of their loss, could not even bring themselves to sleep. Thus, Ayodhya, bereft of her great soul, was shaken like the earth robbed of Indra, stricken by terrible fear and sorrow. The roars of elephants, warriors, and horses echoed through the city, amplifying the sense of calamity. As Rāma’s chariot departed, the king of the Ikṣvākus stood watching, his gaze fixed as long as the dust from the wheels remained visible. So long as he could see his supremely righteous son, Daśaratha’s longing only grew. But when even the dust had faded from sight, grief overcame the king, and he collapsed to the ground. At his side, Kausalyā, adorned and gentle, supported him on the right, while Kaikeyī, slender-waisted, stood on his other side. Distraught, yet steadfast in wisdom and righteousness, the king looked upon Kaikeyī and spoke with pain: “Kaikeyī, do not touch me—you who have chosen evil. I do not wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kinswoman. I am not theirs who depend on you, nor are they mine. You have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and so I renounce you. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever sacred fire I circled, I release you from them all, in this world and the next. If Bharata, having gained this imperishable kingdom, were to offer me anything for the sake of his father, let no such gift come to me.” Queen Kausalyā, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the king from the dust and withdrew. The righteous king, tormented by thoughts of Rāghava, felt as if he had committed a great sin or touched fire with his bare hand. Again and again, he turned back, seated along the chariot’s path, his appearance diminished like the moon swallowed by darkness. Still afflicted, he lamented for his beloved son. When he learned that Rāma had reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke in anguish: “The tracks of the finest chariots that bore my son are still visible, but the great-souled one himself is gone. He who once slept upon beds perfumed with sandalwood, fanned by women of great worth—my excellent son—today must surely be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or perhaps stone. He will rise, pitiable, covered in dust, sighing deeply like a lordly elephant emerging from a muddy lotus pond. The forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rāma, the lord of the people, walking forth unprotected. “And that beloved daughter of Janaka, so accustomed to comfort, will now tread the forest path, her feet weary and wounded by thorns. Unfamiliar with the wilds, she will surely know fear at the roaring of wild beasts. Be satisfied, Kaikeyī—live as a widow and rule the kingdom, for without that tiger among men, I cannot endure life.” Surrounded by the people, the king, lamenting thus, entered his splendid palace like a man who has bathed after a misfortune. But the city he beheld was changed: courtyards and houses stood empty, markets and squares were closed, the people were weak and weary, and the great roads were deserted. Seeing the city, absorbed only in thoughts of Rāma, the king entered his house, grieving, like the sun disappearing into a cloud. The royal house, deprived of Rāma, Vaidehī, and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a vast, still lake from which Garuḍa had snatched away the serpent that once dwelt within.