As the messenger prepared to depart, he was instructed with heartfelt words: “Go and greet my mother Kausalyā with deep respect. Offer her my salutations and remind her to remain ever vigilant. Speak these words to her: ‘Always devoted to righteousness, attend to the sacred fire at the proper times. O noble lady, guard the feet of your lord, treating him as you would a god. Cast aside all pride and arrogance, behave with propriety toward the other mothers, and honor Queen Kaikeyī as you would your own mother. Toward Prince Bharata, let your conduct be as it must toward a king, for kings are the foremost in wealth and power—never forget the duties of royalty.’” The messenger was further instructed, “Convey my greetings to Bharata as well, and let him know my words: ‘In all things, act toward the mothers with proper respect. Address the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line—Bharata—and as long as your father holds the royal power, preserve the kingdom faithfully. The king, now advanced in years, said to me: Do not hinder Bharata from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands. With tears streaming down his face, he told me again: You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.’” As these words were spoken, the great king, Rama—his lotus eyes reddened with grief—could not hold back his tears. Lakshmana, his heart burning with anger, sighed and asked, “For what offense has the prince been exiled? Relying on Queen Kaikeyī’s command, the king has acted thus—right or wrong—causing suffering for us all. Whether it was out of greed or to fulfill a promise, the act of exiling Rama is unjust. This was done only to please the ruler’s will, but I see no justification for abandoning Rama. This decision, made without proper thought and contrary to reason, will only provoke public outrage. As for me, O king, I no longer recognize any fatherhood; for Raghava is my brother, my lord, my kinsman, and my father. Having abandoned one beloved by all and devoted to everyone’s welfare, how will the world remain attached to you after such an act? By exiling Rama, who delights all people and is the very embodiment of righteousness, how will you remain king when you have set yourself against the entire world?” Meanwhile, Janaki—Sita—stood silently, steadfast in her vows, her sighs heavy with sorrow. She was motionless, as if her mind had been struck down by grief. The illustrious princess, unaccustomed to such misfortune, wept quietly, unable to speak a word. She gazed at her husband, her face parched with sadness, and as she watched me depart, tears flowed from her eyes. Rama, too, stood with tears streaming down his face, his hands joined in reverence, protected by Lakshmana’s arm; Sita, steadfast and weeping, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on me as I left. Now, listen to the fifty-ninth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When I turned my horses back toward Ayodhyā, they refused to move forward, shedding hot tears as Rama set out for the forest. After paying my respects to both princes, I mounted the chariot, my heart heavy with sorrow. I lingered there with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rama would call for me again. O great king, in your realm, even the trees seem weighed down with sorrow for me—they wither, though they bear flowers, shoots, and buds. The rivers run warm, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves have withered leaves. The animals do not stir, nor do wild beasts roam; the entire forest, overcome by grief for Rama, has fallen silent. The lotuses have closed their petals, the waters are turbid, the ponds scorched, and the lilies, along with their fish and birds, have vanished. The water-borne flowers and garlands, and those growing on land, have lost their luster; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as before. The gardens are empty, the birds have disappeared, and, O best of men, I no longer see the delightful parks as they once were. No one welcomes me as I enter Ayodhyā; the people, deprived of Rama’s presence, sigh again and again. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rama, the people along the royal road are overcome with tears and grief. From their homes, mansions, and towers, the women—tormented by Rama’s absence—cry out in lamentation. Their wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, they look at one another, clearly overwhelmed by pain. In my distress, I cannot distinguish between enemies, friends, or those indifferent. The people are joyless, the elephants and horses are dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. O great king, Ayodhyā, stricken by Rama’s exile, appears to me like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly joyless. Hearing these words from me, the charioteer, the king’s voice was choked with tears and filled with deep sorrow as he replied: “This was not done with my approval, nor with the counsel of the wise elders; it was imposed by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on evil.