As Rāma departed from Ayodhyā, a heavy sorrow descended upon the city. The people, overwhelmed by waves of grief, sighed deeply and lamented for their beloved lord of the earth. Along the royal road, there was no joy—faces were streaked with tears, and everywhere, hearts were steeped in sorrow. The world itself seemed disturbed by this loss. The cool wind did not blow, the moon no longer offered its gentle beauty, and the sun’s warmth was absent. It was as if the very elements mourned alongside the people. Women’s sons, husbands, and brothers, though having no material desires, abandoned all else and thought only of Rāma. His friends, their minds bewildered and crushed by grief, could not even bring themselves to lie down and rest. Ayodhyā, bereft of Rāma’s noble presence, trembled like the earth stripped of its mountains, or like a land without Indra, consumed by fear and sorrow. The sounds of elephants, horses, and warriors echoed through the city, but it was a tumult born of distress rather than strength. Meanwhile, as Rāma’s chariot departed, King Daśaratha, the ruler of the Ikṣvāku line, could not turn his eyes away. For as long as the dust raised by Rāma’s journey was visible, the king kept his gaze fixed upon it. The further Rāma went, the more the king’s longing to see his righteous son grew. But when the dust finally faded from sight, Daśaratha, stricken with grief, collapsed to the ground. At his side walked Kausalyā, her arms adorned, while on the other side was Kaikeyī, slender-waisted. The king, wise, righteous, and humble though he was, now overcome with sorrow, turned to Kaikeyī and spoke with anguish: “Kaikeyī, do not touch me—you who are set upon evil. I do not wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kin. I am not bound to those who depend on you, nor are they bound to me. You have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and I renounce you. Whatever vows I made with you, whatever fire we circled together, 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 that gift never reach me.” Kausalyā, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the king from where he had fallen, his body covered in dust, and led him away. Daśaratha, tormented by thoughts of his son, felt as if he had committed a great sin, like one who had slain a Brāhmin out of desire or touched fire with his bare hand. Again and again, the king turned back, unable to leave the path of the departing chariot, his stature diminished, like the moon when its light is swallowed. He lamented, his heart aching for his beloved son. Learning that Rāma had already reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke in sorrow: “I see the tracks of the finest vehicles that bore my son away, but I do not see that great-souled one himself. He who once slept on beds scented with sandalwood, fanned by women of noble birth—my most excellent son—today, surely, he must be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or perhaps even on stone. Soon, 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 Rāma, the lord of the people, walking forth as if unprotected. And the beloved daughter of Janaka, who has always known comfort, will now tread the thorny forest path, weary and afraid. Unfamiliar with the wild, she will surely be frightened by the deep, terrifying roars of wild beasts. “Be satisfied, Kaikeyī—live as a widow and rule the kingdom, for without that tiger among men, I cannot endure life.” Lamenting thus, the king, surrounded by his people, entered his splendid house, as one who has bathed after a calamity. He beheld the city: its courtyards and houses stood empty, its markets and squares were closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and the great roads were deserted. Seeing the city thus, with every mind turned toward Rāma, the king entered his home, sorrowful, like the sun veiled by a cloud. Within, the house felt desolate, deprived of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa—like a great lake whose serpent has been taken by Garuḍa. The lord of the earth, his voice choked by emotion, spoke gentle, faint, sorrowful words: “Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother. Nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As he spoke, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalyā’s dwelling and respectfully settled him there. But even after lying down, the king’s mind remained agitated. He saw the house, deprived of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, like the sky bereft of the moon. Seeing this, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in anguish, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He reflected, “Happy indeed are those noble souls who will live to see Rāma return and embrace him once more.” As night fell—a night that felt like destruction for his soul—Daśaratha, unable to rest, spoke these sorrowful words to Kausalyā in the darkness.