When the gentle and ascetic Sītā accompanied Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa into exile, Sumanta, the royal charioteer, was present to witness their first steps into the forest. As the royal sons descended from the chariot and walked on foot with Sītā, it was Sumanta who saw them disappear beneath the trees, much like the divine Ashvins entering the depths of Mount Mandara. King Daśaratha, weighed down by grief, turned to Sumanta and said, “You are truly accomplished, charioteer, for you have seen my two sons enter the forest’s heart. Tell me, what words did Rāma speak, what did Lakṣmaṇa say, and what did Sītā, the daughter of Mithilā, utter as they reached the wilderness? Describe for me how Rāma sits, lies down, and eats in the forest. By hearing of his life, I shall find the will to live, just as Yayāti once lived among the virtuous.” Thus urged by the grieving king, Sumanta readied himself and spoke, his words choked with tears. “O great king,” he began, “Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness, first bowed his head in reverence and offered salutations. He said to me: ‘Charioteer, by my words, show honor to my father, whose head is worthy of worship. Let the entire inner palace be addressed on my behalf—wish health and offer salutations to all without distinction. Greet my mother Kausalyā and urge her to be vigilant; remind her, always devoted to righteousness, to tend the sacred fire at the proper time and to revere the feet of our lord as those of a god. Tell her to abandon pride and arrogance, behave properly toward the mothers, and honor Queen Kaikeyī as one would a mother. Let her treat Prince Bharata as she would a king, for kings are the foremost in wealth—let her remember the royal duty. Greet Bharata as well, and tell him to act properly toward the mothers in all ways. Address the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line, and let him know that while our father holds the royal power, he should preserve the kingdom. The king, advanced in years, instructed me: “Do not hinder Bharata from ruling as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands.” He also told me, with tears streaming down his face: “You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.”’ “As Rāma spoke these words to me, tears welled in his lotus-like eyes. Lakṣmaṇa, deeply angered, sighed and asked, ‘For what offense has the prince been exiled? The king, relying on Queen Kaikeyī’s command, whether right or wrong, has oppressed us all. If Rāma has been exiled out of greed or to grant boons, it is still a wrongful act. This has been done only to satisfy the ruler’s will, but as for abandoning Rāma, I see no justification. This exile, undertaken without due consideration and against reason, will only provoke public outcry. As for me, O king, I recognize no other fatherhood—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 and is righteous to all, how will you remain king, having opposed the entire world?’ “Janakī, steadfast in her vows and sighing deeply, stood motionless, her mind struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, unaccustomed to such misfortune, wept silently and did not speak a word to me. She looked at her husband, her face parched with grief, and as I departed, she shed tears. Rāma, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood with Lakṣmaṇa’s arm around him, while Sītā, steadfast and weeping, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on me.” At this point, Sumanta paused and continued, “Listen now, O king, to what followed. When my horses turned back toward Ayodhyā, they would not proceed, shedding hot tears as Rāma set out for the forest. After making reverence to both princes, I mounted the chariot and departed, my heart heavy with sorrow. I stayed for many days with Guha, hoping perhaps Rāma would call for me again. “O great king, even the trees in your realm have withered, though they still bear flowers and buds, weighed down by sorrow for me. The rivers’ waters are warm, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves have withered leaves. Creatures do not move about, nor do wild beasts roam; the forest, overcome by grief for Rāma, has become silent. The lotuses have closed, their waters are turbid, the ponds are scorched, and the lilies, along with their fish and birds, have disappeared. The flowers and garlands, both water-borne and those growing on land, do not shine as before; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as they once were. The gardens are empty, the birds have vanished, and, O best of men, I do not see the delightful parks as before. “No one welcomes me as I enter Ayodhyā; the people, deprived of seeing Rāma, sigh again and again.” Thus, with a heart full of sorrow and eyes brimming with tears, Sumanta recounted to King Daśaratha the words, actions, and suffering of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā as they began their exile, and the grief that settled over the land in their absence.