As Rāma departed from Ayodhyā, a deep sorrow settled over the city. The people along the royal road, their faces streaked with tears, could not find any joy; each person was lost in their own grief. Even nature seemed to mourn: the cool wind ceased to blow, the moon lost its gentle radiance, and the sun no longer brought warmth. The entire world appeared disturbed and unsettled. Within every household, women’s sons, husbands, and brothers, though they sought nothing for themselves, abandoned all else in their hearts and thought only of Rāma. His friends, bewildered by the weight of their sorrow, could not even bring themselves to lie down and sleep. Ayodhyā, bereft of its great-souled prince, trembled like the earth with its mountains when deprived of Indra, shaken by a dreadful fear and sorrow. The city echoed with the cries of elephants, warriors, and horses, all disturbed by the loss. As Rāma’s chariot rolled away, the king of the Ikṣvāku dynasty stood watching. For as long as the dust of his son’s departure was visible, King Daśaratha did not avert his gaze. The longer he could see his beloved, supremely righteous son, the more his longing to behold him grew. But when even the dust cloud faded from sight, the king, overwhelmed by grief, collapsed to the ground. At his sides walked the two queens: Kausalyā, her arms adorned, remained at his right, and Kaikeyī, slender-waisted, at his left. Though endowed with wisdom, righteousness, and humility, the king’s senses were distressed. He turned to Kaikeyī and, his voice heavy with pain, said, “Kaikeyī, 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—I am not theirs, nor are they mine. You have cared only for your own gain, abandoning righteousness, and I renounce you. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever sacred fires we circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. If Bharata, after gaining this imperishable kingdom, were to offer me anything as a son to his father, may I never receive it.” Queen Kausalyā, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the king from the ground and withdrew with him. The righteous king was tormented, thinking of his son Rāma, as though he had committed a terrible sin or touched fire with his own hand. Again and again, Daśaratha turned back, seating himself along the path of Rāma’s departing chariot. His appearance grew dim, like the moon when its light is swallowed by darkness. Afflicted by sorrow, he lamented, recalling his beloved son. When he learned that Rāma had reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke with anguish: “The tracks of the finest vehicles that carried my son are still visible on the road, but that 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, surely, he must be resting somewhere at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or perhaps on stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable and 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.” The king’s thoughts turned to Sītā: “That beloved daughter of Janaka, accustomed to comfort, will now, weary from treading on thorns, go into the forest. Unfamiliar with the wilds, she will surely experience fear, hearing the deep, hair-raising 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.” Thus lamenting, King Daśaratha, surrounded by a multitude of people, entered his splendid house, his spirit as battered as one who has bathed after a misfortune. He saw the city with its courtyards and houses empty, markets and squares closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and the great roads deserted. Beholding the city, where every thought was of Rāma, the king entered his home, lamenting, like the sun disappearing into a cloud. But the palace, deprived of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a vast, undisturbed lake from which Garuḍa had snatched away its serpent. The lord of the earth, his voice choked with emotion, spoke gentle, faint, and sorrowful words: “Quickly take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother; for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As he spoke, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalyā’s house and respectfully settled him there. But even after entering her dwelling and lying on the bed, the king’s mind remained agitated. He saw the house, now bereft of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, like the night sky without the moon. Seeing this, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in a loud voice, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He lamented, “Happy indeed are those noble souls who will live to see Rāma return and embrace him once more.” As night fell, dark and dreadful like the night of destruction for his soul, Daśaratha spoke these words to Kausalyā at midnight: “I do not see you, Kausalyā; kindly touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and does not return.