As the echoes of sorrow rose from the inner palace, their sound carried throughout the city, stirring grief among all its people. Elders and youth alike, and women everywhere, wept openly; Ayodhyā was once again thrown into turmoil, its peace shattered by lamentation. When the king, having recovered from his confusion, returned to his senses, he urgently summoned the charioteer, yearning to learn what had become of Rāma. The charioteer, Sumanta, approached with hands joined in reverence, his heart heavy with sorrow for Rāma. He saw the aged king, deeply afflicted and restless, sighing and reflecting like a wounded elephant seized by a new planet. Sumanta himself was covered in dust, his face stained with tears and dejection, and the king addressed him with utmost anguish. In his grief, the king asked, "Where will the righteous Rāma dwell, having taken shelter at the root of a tree? What will he eat, that exceedingly fortunate Rāghava? Unaccustomed to suffering, used to the comfort of a royal bed, how does my son sleep now upon the bare earth, as one without support? He who was once followed by foot soldiers, chariots, and elephants—how will Rāma live, now taking refuge in a lonely forest?" The king continued, "In a forest frequented by beasts and deer, inhabited by black serpents, how have the two princes, together with the daughter of Videha, arrived there? With gentle, ascetic Sītā, Sumanta, how did my sons descend from the chariot and proceed on foot? You are indeed accomplished, charioteer, for you have seen my two sons entering the depths of the forest, like the Ashvins entering Mandara. What words did Rāma speak? What did Lakṣmaṇa say? And what did Maithilī utter upon reaching the forest?" "Tell me, charioteer," the king pleaded, "of Rāma’s sitting, lying, and eating; by this knowledge I shall live, just as Yayāti lived among the virtuous." Thus urged, Sumanta prepared himself to speak, his words bound by tears. He recounted how Rāma, ever upholding righteousness, made a gesture of reverence and bowed his head. Rāma had said, "Charioteer, by my words, let my father, whose head is worthy of reverence, be honored. Let the entire inner palace be addressed; wish health for all without distinction, and offer proper salutations. Let my mother Kausalyā be greeted and saluted, and let vigilance be spoken." Rāma had instructed, "Always devoted to righteousness, attend to the sacred fire at the proper time; O lady, guard the feet of the lord as those of a god. Abandon pride and arrogance, behave properly toward the mothers, and honor Queen Kaikeyī as one would honor a mother. Let your conduct toward Prince Bharata be as toward a king; for kings are foremost in wealth—remember the royal duty. Let Bharata be greeted, and convey my words; in all ways, act toward the mothers according to what is proper. Let the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line be addressed; while your father holds royal power, preserve the kingdom." The king, advanced in years, had said to Sumanta, "Do not hinder Bharata from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands." Rāma had spoken again, his tears flowing profusely, "You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother." Sumanta continued, "While Rāma spoke to me thus, he wept intensely, his eyes coppery like a lotus. Lakṣmaṇa, deeply angered, sighed and questioned, 'For what offense has the prince been exiled? Relying on Queen Kaikeyī’s command, the king has done this—whether right or wrong—by which we have all been oppressed. If Rāma has been exiled out of greed or for granting boons, in any case, a wrongful act has been committed. This has been done merely to satisfy the will of the ruler, but as for abandoning Rāma, I see no justification at all. Undertaken without due consideration and contrary to reason, this exile of Rāghava will only give rise to public outcry.' Lakṣmaṇa declared, 'As for me, O great king, I do not recognize any fatherhood; for Rāghava is my brother, lord, kinsman, and father. Having abandoned one beloved by all and devoted to the welfare of all, how will the world remain attached to you after such an act? By exiling Rāma, who delights all people and is righteous, how will you remain king, having opposed the entire world?'" Sumanta described Sītā as well: "Janaki, O great king, sighing deeply and steadfast in her vows, stood motionless, as if her mind had been struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never before known such misfortune, wept from her grief and did not say a word to me. Looking at her husband with a face parched by sorrow, she suddenly shed tears as she watched me depart. In the same way, Rāma, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood protected by Lakṣmaṇa’s arm. Sītā, weeping and steadfast, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on me." Thus, the charioteer spoke, recounting the pain and steadfastness of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā as they entered the forest, leaving behind the comforts of the palace and the love of their family. The tale of their exile, filled with sorrow and righteousness, echoed through the halls of Ayodhyā, marking a moment of profound grief and devotion. Now, listen to the fifty-ninth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa.