Rama, his heart full of compassion and wisdom, spoke with gentle earnestness to those around him. “Set aside pride and arrogance,” he urged. “Show proper respect to the mothers, and especially honor Queen Kaikeyi as one would honor a mother.” He instructed that Bharata should be treated as a king, for kings are foremost in wealth and dignity, and the duties of royalty must always be remembered. He continued, “Let Bharata be greeted properly, and convey my words to him. In all matters, act toward the mothers as is right and fitting.” Rama further advised, “Address the mighty-armed delight of the Ikshvaku line with due honor. While our father holds the royal power, safeguard the kingdom.” He recalled how the aged king, his father, had spoken to him, “Do not prevent Bharata from ruling as prince; live on and fulfill only his commands.” Rama’s voice softened as he remembered his father’s sorrow. “With tears streaming down his face, my father pleaded with me again: ‘You must see my queen, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.’” As Rama recounted these words, his lotus-like eyes, tinged with copper, overflowed with tears, and he wept intensely. At this, Lakshmana, deeply angered and sighing, spoke out: “For what offense has the prince been exiled? The king, relying on Kaikeyi’s command, has done this—right or wrong—oppressing us all. Whether out of greed or to grant boons, the exile of Rama is a wrongful act. This was done merely to satisfy the will of the ruler, but I see no justification for abandoning Rama. Undertaken without due thought and contrary to reason, this exile of Raghava will only bring public outcry.” Lakshmana’s loyalty was unwavering. “As for me, O great king, I do not recognize any other fatherhood: 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 righteous, how will you remain king, having opposed the entire world?” Meanwhile, Sita, the steadfast daughter of Janaka, stood silent and motionless, her mind struck down by sorrow. She, who had never known such misfortune, wept quietly, not speaking a word. She gazed at her husband, her face parched with grief, and tears fell as she watched him depart. In that moment, Rama stood with his face wet with tears, his hands joined in reverence, supported by Lakshmana’s strong arm. Sita, weeping but steadfast in her vows, kept her eyes fixed on the royal chariot and on me, their charioteer. Hear now the next chapter of this sacred tale from the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. When my horses turned back toward Ayodhya, they refused to proceed, shedding hot tears as Rama set out for the forest. After making reverence to both princes, I mounted the chariot, carrying my sorrow with me. I remained with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rama would call me back. O great king, even the trees in your realm seemed weighed down by sorrow for me; though they bore flowers, shoots, and buds, they had withered. The rivers ran with warm waters, the ponds and lakes were parched, and the forests and groves had withered leaves. No creatures moved about; wild beasts did not roam. The forest, overcome by grief for Rama, had fallen silent. The lotuses closed their petals, the waters grew turbid, and the lilies, along with their fish and birds, disappeared. Flowers and garlands, whether water-borne or growing on land, lost their brightness and fragrance; fruits were not as before. The gardens were empty, the birds had vanished, and I could not see the delightful parks as I once did. When I entered Ayodhya, no one welcomed me. The people, deprived of Rama’s presence, sighed again and again. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rama, the people lining the royal road were tearful with grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by Rama’s absence, cried out in lamentation. Their wide, clear eyes brimmed with tears as they looked at one another, overwhelmed by pain. In my distress, I could no longer distinguish between enemies, friends, or those indifferent. The people were joyless, the elephants and horses dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. O great king, Ayodhya, stricken by Rama’s exile, appeared to me like Kausalya bereft of her son—utterly joyless. Hearing my words, the king, his voice choked with tears and filled with deep sorrow, spoke to me: “This was not approved by me, nor by the wise elders skilled in counsel. It was imposed by Kaikeyi, whose mind was set on evil. I did not deliberate with friends, ministers, or citizens; out of confusion and because of a woman, I made this decision suddenly. Surely, by fate or by some great calamity, this disaster has come upon our family, O charioteer, leading to its ruin.