In the palace, King Daśaratha, his heart burdened with sorrow for his exiled sons, turned to Sumanta, his trusted charioteer. With trembling voice, he asked, “In that wild forest, where beasts and deer roam and black serpents dwell, how have my two sons, together with the gentle daughter of Videha, arrived there? Tell me, Sumanta, how did Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, accompanied by the ascetic Sītā, descend from your chariot and set forth on foot into the wilderness? You are truly accomplished, O charioteer, for you have seen my sons entering the depths of the forest, as the divine Ashvins once entered Mandara mountain.” The king’s longing deepened. “Tell me, what words did Rāma speak? What did Lakṣmaṇa say, and what did Maithilī, the noble Sītā, utter upon reaching the forest? Describe to me, O charioteer, how Rāma sat, how he lay down, how he took his meals. By hearing of these things, I shall find the strength to live, just as Yayāti lived among the virtuous.” Thus urged by his sorrowful lord, Sumanta composed himself, though tears brimmed in his eyes. He spoke gently to the king: “O great king, ever steadfast in righteousness, Rāghava, your noble son, made a gesture of deep reverence, bowing his head before me. He said, ‘Charioteer, by my words, let my father—who knows his own self and whose feet are worthy of reverence—be honored. Let the entire inner palace be addressed by my words: let health be wished for all, without exception, and proper salutations offered. Let my mother Kausalyā be greeted and advised to remain vigilant; tell her these words: “Always devoted to righteousness, attend to the sacred fire at the proper times. O lady, serve the feet of your lord as you would those of a god. Abandon all pride and arrogance, behave properly toward the other mothers, and honor Queen Kaikeyī as one honors a mother. Treat Prince Bharata as you would a king, for kings are the foremost in wealth—remember the royal duty.”’ ‘Let Bharata be greeted and my words conveyed to him: “In all ways, act toward the mothers according to what is proper.” Address the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line and say: “While your father holds royal power, preserve the kingdom.” The king, advanced in years, told me, “Do not hinder Bharata from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands.” Then, with tears streaming down his face, he said, “You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.”’ Sumanta’s own voice faltered as he continued, “O great king, while Rāma spoke thus to me, his lotus-like eyes reddened with tears. Lakṣmaṇa, deeply angered, sighed and asked, ‘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 have all been oppressed. If Rāma has been exiled out of greed or to grant 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 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 king, I recognize no other fatherhood; for Rāghava is my brother, my lord, my kinsman, and my 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’s eyes grew moist as he recalled Sītā: “But Janaki, O great king, sighing deeply and steadfast in her vows, stood motionless, as if her mind were struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never before known such misfortune, wept from that grief and did not say a word to me. She looked at her husband, her face parched by sorrow, and as I prepared to depart, she suddenly shed tears. In the same way, Rāma, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood protected by Lakṣmaṇa’s arm. Sītā, steadfast and weeping, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on me as I left them behind.” Sumanta paused, then continued, “Listen now, O king, to what happened as I began my return. When I turned my horses back, they would not proceed on the path; they shed hot tears, grieving as Rāma set out for the forest. After making reverence to both princes, I mounted the chariot and departed, carrying that sorrow within me. I remained there with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rāma would call for me again. “O great king, even in your realm, the trees seem weighed down by grief for me—they have withered, though covered with flowers, shoots, and buds. The rivers run with 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, the waters are turbid, the ponds are scorched, and the lilies, with their fish and birds, have disappeared. The flowers and garlands, whether water-borne or growing on land, no longer shine; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as before. The gardens are empty, the birds have vanished, and, O best of men, I no longer see the delightful parks as they once were.” Thus did Sumanta, his words heavy with sorrow and devotion, recount to King Daśaratha all that had transpired, painting before him the somber picture of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa’s departure, and the grieving world that seemed to mourn their absence.