Ayodhya, once vibrant and full of life, was shaken to its core after the departure of its great soul, Rāma. The city trembled as the earth might when its mountains are deprived of Indra’s protection, gripped by a terrible fear and sorrow. The elephants, warriors, and horses roared in distress, echoing the city’s anguish. As Rāma left, the king of the Ikshvakus, Daśaratha, stood watching. He did not take his eyes away as long as the dust raised by Rāma’s departure was visible. Each moment that he could see his supremely righteous and beloved son, his longing only grew stronger. But when even the dust faded from sight, Daśaratha, stricken with grief, collapsed to the ground. At his right side, Queen Kausalyā, her arms adorned, followed him faithfully, and at his other side walked Kaikeyī, slender-waisted and resolute. Though endowed with wisdom, righteousness, and humility, the king’s senses were distressed. He turned to Kaikeyī and spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow: “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 live dependent on you—I am not theirs, nor are they mine. You are concerned only with your own gain, having abandoned righteousness, 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 obtained this imperishable kingdom, were to give me anything for the sake of his father, let not that gift come to me.” Queen Kausalyā, consumed by grief, raised the fallen king, covered in dust, and withdrew. Daśaratha was tormented, as if he had slain a Brahmin out of desire or touched fire with his hand, thinking only of his son Rāghava. Again and again, he turned back, seated along the chariot’s path, his appearance diminished, like the moon when its light is swallowed. Afflicted with sorrow, he lamented, recalling his beloved son. Learning that Rāma had reached the city’s outskirts, he spoke: “The tracks of the finest vehicles that carried my son are visible on the road, but that great-souled one himself is not seen. He who used to sleep comfortably on beds scented with sandalwood, fanned by women of great worth—my most excellent son—today, surely, somewhere he must 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, Rāma, the lord of the people, walking forth as if he were without protection. That beloved daughter of Janaka, accustomed to comfort, will now, weary from treading on thorns, go to the forest. Unfamiliar with the forests, 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.” Lamenting thus, surrounded by a multitude of people, the king entered his splendid house like one who has bathed after a misfortune. He saw the city, with its courtyards and houses empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and its great roads not crowded. Beholding the entire city, thinking only of Rāma, the king entered his house, lamenting, like the sun entering a cloud. The house, deprived of Rāma, Vaidehī, and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a great, undisturbed lake whose serpent has been taken by Garuḍa. 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 said this, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalyā’s house and respectfully settled him there. Yet even after entering Kausalyā’s dwelling and lying on the bed, his mind remained agitated. The king saw the house deprived of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, like the sky bereft of the moon. Seeing that, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in a loud voice, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He mourned, “Happy indeed are those noble men who will live to see Rāma return and embrace him once more.” As night fell, like a night of destruction for his soul, at midnight Daśaratha spoke these words 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, thinking only of Rāma, the queen sat beside him, overwhelmed with grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. In the darkness, as the king lay weakened by grief, Kausalyā, tormented by sorrow for her son, spoke to the ruler of the earth: “O tiger among men, now that she has expelled her poison against Rāghava, Kaikeyī will roam about, twisted in her ways, just like a serpent freed from its slough.