With hands joined in deep reverence, the charioteer Sumanta approached the great king Daśaratha, his heart heavy with grief for Rama. Sorrow and distress weighed upon him, for he had witnessed the prince’s departure. Before him sat the aged king, deeply afflicted—his spirit restless, sighing and reflecting, like a wounded elephant caught in the grip of a new and ominous fate. When Daśaratha saw Sumanta approaching, he noted the charioteer’s limbs covered in dust, his face streaked with tears and marked by dejection. Overwhelmed by anguish, the king addressed him, his voice trembling with pain. “Where will the righteous one dwell now, taking shelter at the root of a tree? That exceedingly fortunate Rāghava, O charioteer, what will he eat in the wilderness? Unaccustomed to suffering, having always rested upon a comfortable bed, how does the king’s son, Sumanta, sleep now on the hard earth, as one without support?” The king’s lament continued. “He who was always followed by foot soldiers, chariots, and elephants—how will Rāma live, having sought refuge in the lonely forest? In those wilds, haunted by beasts and deer and inhabited by black serpents, how did the two princes, with the daughter of Videha, arrive there safely? And with gentle, ascetic Sītā by their side, how did the royal sons descend from the chariot and proceed on foot?” Tears welled in the king’s eyes as he spoke further. “You are indeed accomplished, charioteer, for you have seen my two sons entering the depths of the forest, like the divine Ashvins entering the Mandara mountain. Tell me, what words did Rāma speak? What did Lakṣmaṇa say? And what did Maithilī utter, Sumanta, upon reaching the forest? Tell me of Rāma’s sitting, lying, and eating—by this knowledge I shall endure, just as Yayāti lived among the virtuous.” Thus urged by the king, Sumanta steeled himself and, with tears in his eyes, began to speak. “O great king, Rāghava, ever devoted to righteousness, first made a gesture of reverence, bowing his head. He said, ‘Charioteer, by my words, convey to my father, who knows himself and whose head is worthy of reverence, that the feet of the great-souled one are to be honored. Let the entire inner palace be addressed with my words—let health be wished for all without distinction, and proper salutations offered. Let my mother Kausalyā be greeted and saluted, and let vigilance be spoken. Say also these words: Always devoted to righteousness, at the proper time attend to the sacred fire; O lady, guard the feet of the lord as you would those of a god. Abandon pride and arrogance, behave properly toward the mothers, and honor Queen Kaikeyī as one should 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 let my words be conveyed; in all ways, act toward the mothers according to what is proper. Address the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line; while your father holds royal power, preserve the kingdom. The king, advanced in years, told me: “Do not hinder him from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands.”’ “Then Rāma, tears flowing, told me, ‘You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.’ As he spoke these words, O king, Rāma—his eyes coppery like a lotus—was overcome with grief and wept intensely. “Lakṣmaṇa, deeply angered, sighed and spoke: ‘For what offense has the prince been exiled? Relying on the queen Kaikeyī’s command, the king has done this—right or wrong—by which we have all been oppressed. If Rāma has been exiled out of greed or for the sake of 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. 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?’ “As for Janaki, O king, she stood motionless, steadfast in her vows, sighing deeply—her mind struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never before known such misfortune, wept from grief and did not say a word to me. She looked at her husband with a face parched by sorrow, and as I prepared to depart, she suddenly shed tears. Rāma, too, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood protected by Lakṣmaṇa’s arm; while Sītā, weeping and steadfast, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on me.” Sumanta paused, and then continued, “Listen now, O king, to the next part of the tale. When I turned my horses back, they would not proceed on the path—they shed hot tears as Rāma set out for the forest. After making reverence to both princes, I mounted the chariot and set out, bearing that sorrow within me. I remained there for many days together with Guha, hoping that perhaps Rāma would call for me again.” Thus, with a heart full of sorrow, Sumanta recounted to King Daśaratha all that had transpired in the forest, faithfully conveying the words, actions, and grief of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā as they began their exile.