As Rama prepared to leave for the forest, the very heavens seemed to respond with turmoil. Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets approached Soma and took up their positions, casting an ominous influence upon the skies. The stars lost their radiance, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared veiled in smoke. It was as if the celestial order itself was disturbed by Rama’s departure. The city of Ayodhya trembled, shaking like the vast ocean churned by a fierce, black wind. Darkness seemed to envelop all directions, so thick that neither planet nor star nor any other thing could be seen. Suddenly, all the people of the city were overwhelmed by misery; no one cared for food or pastime. Sighs and sobs filled the air as the people, battered by waves of grief, lamented for their beloved lord, Rama. On the royal road, faces were streaked with tears—no one rejoiced, for sorrow had seized all hearts. The cool wind ceased to blow, the moon brought no comfort, and the sun’s warmth was absent; the whole world felt disturbed and forlorn. Women’s sons, husbands, and brothers, though seeking nothing, abandoned all concerns and thought only of Rama. His friends, their minds bewildered and weighed down by grief, could not even bring themselves to lie down to sleep. Thus, Ayodhya, bereft of Rama, trembled like the earth with its mountains deprived of mighty Indra, gripped by terrible fear and sorrow. The city resounded with the cries of elephants, warriors, and horses, echoing the anguish of its people. As Rama’s chariot rolled away, the dust it raised lingered in the air. For as long as that dust was visible, the king of the Ikshvakus, Daśaratha, did not withdraw his gaze. As long as he could see his supremely righteous and beloved son, his longing only grew stronger. But when even the dust was lost to sight, the grief-stricken king collapsed to the ground. By his side stood Kausalya, her arms adorned, and on his other side, Kaikeyi, slender-waisted. The king, wise and righteous though shaken to his core, looked at Kaikeyi and spoke in anguish: “Kaikeyi, do not touch me—you who are resolved on evil. I do not wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kinswoman. 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 fire I circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. If Bharata, having gained this imperishable kingdom, were to offer me anything as a son to his father, let not that gift come to me.” Queen Kausalya, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the dust-covered king and withdrew with him. Daśaratha, tormented by thoughts of his son, felt as if he had committed a terrible sin, like one who has slain a Brahmin out of desire or touched fire with his hand. Again and again he turned back, gazing down the path of the chariot, his appearance diminished like the moon when its light is swallowed. Afflicted by sorrow, the king lamented, recalling his beloved Rama. Learning that his son had reached the outskirts of the city, he spoke in despair: “I see the tracks of the finest vehicles that carried my son, but the great-souled one himself is not seen. He who once slept on beds scented with sandalwood, fanned by women of great worth—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 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 without protection. “And Sita, the beloved daughter of Janaka, accustomed to comfort, will now, weary from treading on thorns, go to the forest. Unfamiliar with the wilds, 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 like one who has bathed after a misfortune. He saw the city—its courtyards and homes empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and its great roads deserted. Beholding the entire city, thinking only of Rama, the king entered his house, lamenting, like the sun entering a cloud. The royal residence, deprived of Rama, Vaidehī (Sita), and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a vast, undisturbed lake whose serpent has been carried away by Garuḍa. Then the lord of the earth, his voice choked with emotion, spoke gentle, faint, sorrowful words: “Quickly take me to Kausalya’s house, Rama’s mother; for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As the king spoke thus, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalya’s house and respectfully settled him there, seeking solace in the presence of one who shared his immeasurable grief.