As the sorrowful events unfolded in Ayodhyā, the mighty-armed delight of the Ikṣvāku line—Rāma—was addressed with earnest words: “While your father still holds the royal power, preserve the kingdom.” The aged king, his heart heavy and voice trembling, had turned to his faithful charioteer, saying, “Do not hinder Rāma from ruling the kingdom as prince; live on, and carry out only his commands.” Tears streamed down the king’s face as he spoke again, imploring, “You must see my mother, who longs for her son, as you would your own mother.” As these words were spoken, Rāma, whose eyes shone with the coppery hue of a lotus, wept intensely, overcome by emotion. Lakṣmaṇa, unable to contain his anger, sighed deeply and cried out, “For what offense has the prince been exiled?” He continued, “Relying on Queen Kaikeyī’s command, the king has done this—right or wrong—by which we have all been oppressed. If Rāma has been exiled out of greed or for the sake of granting boons, in any case, a wrongful act has been committed. This has been done merely to satisfy the will of the ruler; but as for abandoning Rāma, I see no justification at all. Undertaken without due consideration, and contrary to reason, this exile of Rāghava will only give rise to public outcry.” Lakṣmaṇa’s devotion to his brother was unwavering. He declared, “As for me, O great king, I do not recognize any fatherhood; for 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 all people and is righteous, how will you remain king, having opposed the entire world?” Meanwhile, Sītā, the steadfast Janakī, stood motionless, sighing deeply and struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never before known such misfortune, wept in her grief and could not utter a word. Her face parched with sorrow, she gazed at her husband, and as the charioteer prepared to depart, she suddenly shed tears. Rāma, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood protected by Lakṣmaṇa’s arm. Sītā, steadfast even in her weeping, kept her gaze fixed upon the royal chariot and the departing charioteer, her heart heavy with longing and pain. Now, listen to the next part of this sacred tale from the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As the charioteer turned his horses back toward Ayodhyā, the noble steeds refused to proceed, shedding hot tears themselves as Rāma set out for the forest. After taking leave with reverence from both princes, the charioteer mounted the chariot, bearing his sorrow within. He remained for many days with Guha, hoping that perhaps Rāma would call for him again. In the king’s realm, even the trees seemed to wither from grief, their flowers, shoots, and buds drooping in sorrow. The rivers ran warm, the ponds and lakes were parched, and the forests and groves bore withered leaves. Creatures ceased to move about, and wild beasts no longer roamed; the forest, overcome by grief for Rāma, had become silent. Lotuses closed their petals, waters grew turbid, ponds were scorched, and lilies, along with their fish and birds, disappeared. Water-borne flowers and garlands, and those growing on land, lost their luster; their fragrance faded, and the fruits were not as before. The gardens stood empty, the birds had vanished, and the once-delightful parks no longer brought joy. As the charioteer entered Ayodhyā, no one came forth to welcome him. The people, deprived of the sight of Rāma, sighed again and again. Along the royal road, all who saw the returning chariot without Rāma were overcome with tears and grief. From their mansions and towers, the women, tormented by Rāma’s absence, cried out in lamentation. Their wide, clear eyes brimmed with tears as they looked at one another, each clearly overwhelmed with pain. In the charioteer’s distress, he could no longer tell the difference between enemies, friends, or those indifferent. The people were joyless; elephants and horses were dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. Ayodhyā itself, stricken by Rāma’s exile, appeared to him like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly without joy. Hearing the charioteer’s account, the king, his voice choked with tears and filled with deep sorrow, spoke: “This was not approved by me together with 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. Surely, by fate or by some great calamity, this disaster has come upon this family, O charioteer, leading to its ruin.” The king pleaded, “Charioteer, if I have ever done any good for you, quickly take me to Rāma; my life is hurrying me on. Whatever command I have, let it turn Rāghava back; I cannot live even for a moment without Rāma. Or if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me on the chariot and swiftly show me to Rāma.” Thus, the pain of separation weighed heavily on all: the king, the charioteer, the people of Ayodhyā, and all of nature itself mourned the exile of Rāma, the beloved son, prince, and hope of the Ikṣvāku line.