King Daśaratha, overwhelmed by sorrow, spoke with trembling voice to his charioteer, Sumanta, as memories of his beloved son Rāma tormented his heart. He lamented, “He whom foot soldiers, chariots, and elephants once followed in grand procession—how will Rāma survive, now forced to take refuge in a lonely forest? How have the two princes, accompanied by the gentle daughter of Videha, arrived in a wilderness frequented by wild beasts and deer, inhabited by black serpents?” The king’s anguish deepened as he wondered aloud, “Sumanta, how did my royal sons, with ascetic Sītā, descend from the chariot and proceed on foot? You are truly accomplished, charioteer, for you have witnessed my two sons entering the depths of the forest, as the divine Ashvins once entered Mandara mountain.” Daśaratha’s yearning grew desperate. “What words did Rāma speak, what did Lakṣmaṇa say, and what did Sītā utter as they reached the forest, Sumanta? Tell me, charioteer, of Rāma’s sitting, lying, and eating—by hearing these, I shall live, just as Yayāti lived among the virtuous.” Thus urged, Sumanta steeled himself and spoke, his words bound by tears. He recounted, “O great king, Rāma, ever upholding righteousness, made a gesture of reverence, bowing his head. He said to me, ‘Charioteer, by my words, to my father—whose head is worthy of reverence—let the feet of the great-souled one be honored. Let the entire inner palace be addressed; let health be wished for all, and proper salutations offered. Let my mother Kausalyā be greeted and saluted, with vigilance spoken; say also these words: Always devoted to righteousness, at the proper time attend to the sacred fire, O lady, and guard the feet of the lord as one 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; act toward the mothers as is proper. Let the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line be addressed; while your father holds royal power, preserve the kingdom.’” Sumanta continued, “The king, advanced in years, said to me: ‘Do not hinder Bharata from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on and carry out only his commands.’ He spoke again, tears flowing: ‘You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.’” “O great king,” Sumanta recalled, “while Rāma spoke thus, his eyes coppery like a lotus, he wept intensely. 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—right or wrong—by which we are all 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 ruler’s will, but as for abandoning Rāma, I see no justification. Undertaken without due consideration and contrary to reason, this exile of Raghava will only bring public outcry. As for me, O great king, I do not recognize any fatherhood; for Raghava 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’s grief: “Janaki, O great king, sighing deeply and steadfast in her vows, stood motionless, struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never known such misfortune, wept and did not speak 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.” Sumanta then beckoned Daśaratha to listen further: “Now hear the fifty-ninth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When my horses turned back, they would not proceed on the path, shedding hot tears as Rāma set out for the forest. After making reverence to both princes, I set out, mounting the chariot, bearing that sorrow within me. I remained there together with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rāma would call for me again.” Sumanta described the sorrow that pervaded the land: “O great king, in your realm, even the trees, weighed down by sorrow for me, have withered, though they bear flowers, shoots, and buds. The rivers have warm waters, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves have withered leaves. Creatures do not move about, nor do wild beasts roam; that forest, overcome by grief for Rāma, has become silent. The lotuses have closed their petals, their waters are turbid, the ponds are scorched, and the lilies, with their fish and birds, have disappeared. The water-borne flowers and garlands, and those growing on land, do not shine today; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as before.” Thus, Sumanta’s account revealed not only the anguish of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, but also the sorrow that had settled over the entire kingdom, as nature itself mourned the exile of its beloved prince.