With deep anguish, the charioteer spoke to King Dasharatha, saying, “This has been done merely to satisfy the will of the ruler; but as for abandoning Rama, I see no justification at all. This exile of Raghava, undertaken without proper thought and against all reason, will only stir public outcry. For myself, O great king, I recognize no fatherhood; Raghava is my brother, my lord, my kinsman, and my father. Having forsaken 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 Rama, who delights all people and is righteous, how will you remain king, having opposed the entire world?” Meanwhile, Janaki, steadfast in her vows, stood motionless, sighing deeply, her mind struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never before known such misfortune, wept from grief, unable to speak a word. Looking at her husband with a face parched by sorrow, she shed tears as she watched me depart. In the same way, Rama, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood protected by Lakshmana’s arm; likewise, 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, they would not proceed on the path, shedding hot tears as Rama set out for the forest. Then, after paying homage to both princes, I set out, mounting the chariot, bearing that sorrow within me. I remained there together with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rama would call for me again. O great king, in your realm, even the trees, 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 have withered leaves. Creatures do not move about, nor do wild beasts roam; that forest, overcome by grief for Rama, 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. Here, 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 Rama, sigh again and again. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rama, all the people along the royal road are tearful with grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by the sight of Rama’s absence, cry out in lamentation. With wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, the women look at each other, clearly overwhelmed with pain. In my distress, I do not notice any difference 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 the charioteer’s words, King Dasharatha, 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. Charioteer, if I have ever done any good for you, quickly take me to Rama; my life is hurrying me on. Whatever command I have, let it turn Raghava back; I cannot live even for a moment without Rama. Or if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me on the chariot and swiftly show me to Rama. Where is that elder brother of Lakshmana, with curved tusks and great bow? If I live, may I see him together with Sita. If I do not see Rama, with blood-red eyes, mighty arms, and gem-studded earrings, I will go to the abode of Yama. What could be more painful than this: that I, descended from Ikshvaku, have come to this state and do not see Raghava here? Alas, Rama! Rama’s younger brother! Alas, ascetic Vaidehī! You do not know that I am dying, abandoned by sorrow.” Overwhelmed by intense grief, the king, his mind utterly afflicted, plunged into the ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross, and spoke: “The ocean of sorrow, with Rama’s exile as its great depth, Sita’s separation as its far shore, sighs as its mighty waves, and tears as its foaming, turbid waters. Its fish are the flailing of arms, its great roar is loud lamentation, its floating weeds are disheveled hair, and its submarine fire is Kaikeyī.