With deep reverence for righteousness, Rama spoke to Sita, guiding her gently on how to conduct herself during his exile. He urged her to always attend to the sacred fire at the proper times, and to guard the feet of her lord as one would those of a god. He counseled her to abandon pride and arrogance, to behave respectfully toward all the mothers in the palace, and to honor Queen Kaikeyī as she would her own mother. Her conduct toward Prince Bharata, Rama advised, should be as toward a king, for kings possess great wealth and royal duty must be remembered. He instructed Sita to greet Bharata and convey his words to him, and in all ways to act toward the mothers according to what is proper. She was to address the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line and, while her father held royal power, preserve the kingdom. Rama recounted how the aged king had spoken to him, saying, “Do not hinder Bharata from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands.” The king had spoken again, tears streaming down his face, imploring Rama to see his mother, who longed for her son, as he would his own mother. As Rama recalled these words, he wept intensely, his lotus-like eyes reddened by sorrow. Lakshmana, deeply angered, sighed and questioned, “For what offense has the prince been exiled?” He lamented that, relying on Queen Kaikeyī’s command, the king had acted—whether rightly or wrongly—in a way that oppressed them all. If Rama had been exiled out of greed or to grant boons, Lakshmana declared, a wrongful act had been committed. The exile was undertaken merely to satisfy the ruler’s will, but Lakshmana saw no justification for abandoning Rama. Done without due consideration and contrary to reason, this exile would only provoke public outcry. Lakshmana’s devotion was unwavering: “As for me, O great king, I do not recognize any fatherhood; for Raghava is my brother, lord, kinsman, and father.” He wondered how the world would remain attached to the king after abandoning one beloved by all and devoted to their welfare. By exiling Rama, who delighted people and was righteous, Lakshmana questioned how the king could remain as ruler, having opposed the entire world. Meanwhile, Sita stood motionless, sighing deeply, steadfast in her vows, her mind struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, unfamiliar with such grief, wept silently, saying nothing. Looking at her husband, her face parched by sorrow, she suddenly shed tears as she watched Rama depart. Rama, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood protected by Lakshmana’s arm; Sita, weeping and steadfast, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on Rama. Now, listen to the fifty-ninth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When the charioteer’s horses turned back, they refused to proceed, shedding hot tears as Rama set out for the forest. After paying reverence to both princes, the charioteer mounted the chariot, bearing his sorrow within. He remained there with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rama would call for him again. In the king’s realm, even the trees, weighed down by sorrow, had withered, though they bore flowers, shoots, and buds. The rivers’ waters were warm, the ponds and lakes parched, and the forests and groves had withered leaves. Creatures no longer moved about, nor did wild beasts roam; the forest, overcome by grief for Rama, had become silent. Lotuses closed their petals, their waters turbid, ponds scorched, and lilies, along with their fish and birds, had vanished. Water-borne flowers and garlands, and those growing on land, no longer shone; their fragrance was faint, and the fruits were not as before. Gardens were empty, birds had disappeared, and the delightful parks were no longer visible. No one welcomed the charioteer as he entered Ayodhyā; the people, deprived of seeing Rama, sighed again and again. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rama, all the people along the royal road were tearful with grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by the absence of Rama, cried out in lamentation. With wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, the women looked at each other, overwhelmed with pain. In his distress, the charioteer noticed no difference between enemies, friends, or those indifferent. The people were joyless, elephants and horses dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. Ayodhyā, stricken by Rama’s exile, appeared to him like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly joyless. Hearing the charioteer’s words, the king, his voice choked with tears and filled with deep sorrow, spoke: “This was not approved by me, nor by the wise elders skilled in counsel, but was imposed by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on evil. Neither with friends, nor with ministers, nor with citizens did I deliberate; out of confusion and because of a woman, I made this decision suddenly.