In every home throughout Ayodhyā, the women wept bitterly, their hearts pierced with grief. They turned upon their husbands, who had returned from the streets, their words sharp and stinging, like goads used to prod mighty elephants. Overwhelmed by sorrow, they questioned the very meaning of their lives: “What use are these houses, our wealth, or even our sons and pleasures, if we cannot behold Rāghava? What joy remains without him?” They spoke with reverence of Lakṣmaṇa, declaring, “There is only one true man left in this world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, with Sītā, follows Kakutstha Rāma and serves him in the forest.” Their hearts turned to the wilds where Rāma would wander, and they envied the rivers, lotus-filled lakes, and ponds whose pure waters would now bathe Kakutstha. They imagined the delightful forests, the great rivers, the vast marshlands, and the towering mountains, all becoming radiant in Rāma’s presence. “Wherever Rāma goes,” they said, “the forests and mountains will honor him as a cherished guest. Even out of season, crowns of flowers and the finest fruits will appear as offerings for him, out of compassion. The mountains will pour forth pure waters and reveal wondrous, colorful waterfalls. The trees atop the peaks will gladden Rāghava’s heart. Wherever Rāma is, there is no fear, nor can defeat touch him. He is a mighty hero, the strong-armed son of Daśaratha. Before he goes too far, let us follow him!” Their longing grew. “The shade of such a great soul as our lord is comforting; he is our protector, refuge, and goal. We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava,” the women urged their husbands. “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and safety in the forest, and Sītā will care for us. What happiness can be found in this joyless city, among anxious, distracted people?” They lamented the rule of Kaikeyī, “If Kaikeyī, unrighteous and heedless, is to rule, then life holds no value—not sons, nor wealth. She has abandoned her own son and husband for power—who else would Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, not forsake? We will not remain in this kingdom as her servants. While she lives, we curse even living with our sons. Who could be happy in the presence of such a cruel woman, who banished the king’s son? All is afflicted and leaderless; because of Kaikeyī, everything will soon fall into ruin.” They foresaw disaster: “With Rāma gone, the king will not survive, and when Daśaratha dies, destruction will surely follow. Better to drink poison, or follow Rāghava, or else seek oblivion. Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, has left us to Bharata, as helpless as beasts handed to a hunter.” With tears, they recalled Rāma: “The elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-skinned with a face like the full moon, his collarbone hidden, destroyer of foes, long-armed and lotus-eyed—he always speaks first, sweetly and truthfully, gentle and beloved by all, pleasing to behold like the moon. Surely, that tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, will grace the forests as he roams, that great chariot-warrior.” Thus, the women of the city, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death approached, cried out in their homes. As they lamented for Rāghava, the sun set and night descended. The city’s fires were extinguished, all conversation and storytelling ceased, and Ayodhyā shone as if wrapped in darkness. The merchants’ goods lay untouched, joy and shelter vanished, and the city became like a starless sky. Grieving for Rāma as for a lost son or brother, the women wept, their hearts more sorrowful for him than even for their own kin. Ayodhyā was as silent as a vast ocean whose waters had receded; songs, festivals, dances, and music were stilled, joy vanished, and the markets closed. In this way, the women, distressed for Rāma, mourned deeply, and the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in Vālmīki’s ancient Rāmāyaṇa came to a close. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, journeyed far through the remainder of the night, his mind ever recalling his father’s command. As the auspicious night passed, he worshipped the sacred dawn and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly he moved past villages and blooming forests, glimpsing them as he went, like arrows loosed from fine horses. Along the way, he heard the voices of villagers, their words filled with sorrow and anger: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, today Kaikeyī is cruel, sinful, and bound to evil; she has broken all boundaries and acts harshly. She sends the righteous son of the king, wise, compassionate, and diligent, into exile in the forest. How will Sītā, the blessed daughter of Janaka, who has always known happiness, now endure suffering?” Thus, Rāma pressed on, the pain of Ayodhyā’s people echoing in his heart as he journeyed into exile.