When Rāma departed from Ayodhyā, the very elements of nature seemed to mourn. The cool wind no longer brought comfort, the moon lost its soothing beauty, and even the sun’s warmth failed to reach the earth. All across the world, a deep disturbance was felt. In every home, women’s sons, husbands, and brothers—though they had no desires or ambitions of their own—abandoned all else and thought only of Rāma, their hearts drawn to him in sorrow and longing. Rāma’s friends, overwhelmed and bewildered by the weight of their grief, could not bring themselves even to sleep. The once-glorious city of Ayodhyā, bereft of its great soul, trembled like the earth when its mountains are deprived of mighty Indra. Terrible fear and sorrow gripped the city, and the roars of elephants, warriors, and horses echoed through the streets. As Rāma’s chariot rolled away, the king of the Ikṣvāku dynasty stood watching, his eyes fixed on the rising dust stirred by his beloved son’s departure. For as long as that dust was visible, he could not bring himself to look away, and as long as he could see even a glimpse of Rāma, his longing only grew stronger. But when the dust finally settled and even that faint sign of Rāma vanished, the king, stricken by grief, collapsed to the ground. By his side walked Kausalyā, adorned with ornaments, and at his other side was Kaikeyī, slender-waisted and silent. The king, wise and virtuous though tormented, turned to Kaikeyī and spoke with anguish, “Kaikeyī, do not touch me—you, who are resolved on evil. I do not wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kin. Those who depend on you are not mine, nor am I theirs. You have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and I renounce you. All the vows we took together, all the sacred fires we circled, I release you from them, here and hereafter. If Bharata, having gained this imperishable kingdom, were to offer me anything as a son to his father, let no such gift come to me.” Queen Kausalyā, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the king from the ground, dust clinging to his body, and withdrew with him. The king, tormented by thoughts of his son Rāghava, felt as though he had committed a terrible sin, like one who has slain a Brahmin for gain or touched fire with his bare hand. Time and again, he turned back along the chariot’s path, his form diminished and forlorn, like the moon swallowed by darkness. He lamented deeply, recalling his beloved son, and when he learned that Rāma had reached the edge of the city, he spoke in sorrow, “I can see the tracks of the finest vehicles that carried my son, but the great-souled one himself is gone. He who slept on beds perfumed with sandalwood, fanned by noble women—my most excellent son—today must be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable and covered in dust, sighing deeply, like a lordly elephant rising from a lotus pond. Forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rāma, the lord of the people, walking forth as if he were without protection. “And Sītā, the beloved daughter of Janaka, accustomed to comfort, weary from treading on thorns, will now go to the forest. Unfamiliar with the wilds, she will surely know fear when she hears 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.” Thus lamenting, the king, surrounded by a sorrowful multitude, returned to his splendid house, as one who has bathed after a misfortune. He beheld the city—its courtyards and homes empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and its great roads deserted. The whole city thought only of Rāma. The king entered his house, his heart heavy with grief, like the sun slipping behind a cloud. The royal house, now bereft of Rāma, Vaidehī, and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a vast, undisturbed lake from which the serpent has been snatched away by Garuḍa. The lord of the earth, his voice choked with emotion, spoke gentle, faint, sorrowful words: “Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother; for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As he said this, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalyā’s house and respectfully settled him there. But even there, lying on the bed, the king’s mind remained restless and agitated. He looked around and saw the house, empty of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, like the night sky without the moon. Overcome by grief, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in anguish, “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—like the night of destruction for his soul—Daśaratha, at midnight, spoke to Kausalyā, “I do not see you, Kausalyā; kindly touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and does not return.” Seeing the king lying there, his thoughts fixed only on Rāma, the queen sat beside him, overwhelmed by grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly.