The grief-stricken King Dasharatha, longing for news of his beloved son, asked his charioteer, “Tell me, charioteer, of Rāma’s sitting, lying, and eating; by hearing of him, I shall live, just as Yayāti lived among the virtuous.” Thus pressed by the king’s yearning, the charioteer composed himself, though tears clouded his words, and began to recount what he had witnessed. He spoke of Rāma, the great king’s son, ever devoted to righteousness. Rāghava, in his humility, bowed his head in reverence and addressed me, saying, “Charioteer, by my words, let my father—who knows himself, whose head is worthy of reverence—be honored; let the feet of the great-souled one be worshipped. Let the entire inner palace be addressed by my words. Wish health for all, without distinction, and offer proper salutations.” Rāma continued, “Let my mother Kausalyā be greeted and saluted, and let vigilance be spoken; say also these words: ‘Always devoted to righteousness, attend to the sacred fire at the proper time. O lady, guard the feet of the lord like those of a god. Abandon pride and arrogance, behave properly toward the mothers; 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. Let the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line be addressed; while your father holds the royal power, preserve the kingdom.’” Rāma then repeated to me what the king, advanced in years, had said: “Do not hinder him from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands.” And again, with tears streaming, he urged me, “You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.” As Rāma spoke these words to me, his coppery lotus-like eyes overflowed with tears. Lakshmana, deeply angered, sighed and asked, “For what offense has the prince been exiled?” He declared, “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 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 Raghava will only give rise to public outcry.” Lakshmana’s pain was evident as he continued, “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?” Meanwhile, Sita, steadfast and true to her vows, sighed deeply and stood motionless, stricken by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never known such misfortune, wept from her grief and spoke not a word to me. Her face, parched by sorrow, turned toward her husband, and as she watched me depart, she suddenly shed tears. Rāma, too, stood with his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, protected by Lakshmana’s arm. Sita, weeping and steadfast, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on me. Now, listen to the fifty-ninth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When my horses turned back toward Ayodhyā, they would not proceed on the path, shedding hot tears as Rāma set out for the forest. After making reverence with both princes, I mounted the chariot, bearing that sorrow within me. I remained with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rāma would call for me again. O great king, even the trees in your realm, 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 display 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 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. 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. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rāma, all the people along the royal road are tearful with grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by the sight of Rāma’s absence, cry out in lamentation. With wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, the women look at each other, clearly overwhelmed with pain. Such was the sorrow that pervaded Ayodhyā and the hearts of all, as the charioteer faithfully recounted the events to the king.