As Rama, that lion among men, departed from the palace with his palms joined in reverence, a great and anguished cry arose from the women within the inner chambers. Their hearts were wrung with grief, for Rama was their refuge and protector—he who cared for the helpless, the weak, and those devoted to ascetic ways. Now, bereft of their guardian, they wondered in despair: Where does such a protector go? They lamented, recalling how Rama never allowed anger to cloud his mind, even when insulted. He avoided all causes for wrath and soothed the anger of others, sharing in the sorrows of all. Where could such a one, so gentle and steadfast, be going now? The women remembered how Rama treated each of them with the same devotion and energy he showed his mother Kausalya, his heart expansive and impartial. Where indeed was this great soul going? Urged by the king—who had been swayed by Kaikeyi’s will—Rama was being sent to the forest. The women grieved, questioning where the protector of not only themselves but of the whole world was headed. They cried out against the king’s decision, calling it senseless and ruinous for all living beings, for Rama was righteous and true to his vows, and now he was exiled to the wilderness. Their sorrow swelled, and the royal wives wept aloud, their anguish like that of cows bereft of their calves. The king, tormented by grief for his beloved son, heard their terrible cries echoing through the palace, and his own heart was plunged into deeper distress. The entire city felt the shadow of Rama’s departure. The sacred fires went unkindled, householders neglected to cook, and people abandoned their daily duties. Even the sun seemed to vanish from the sky. Elephants left their food untouched, cows refused to feed their calves, and mothers, even those who had just given birth to their firstborn sons, found no joy. Inauspicious omens appeared: Triśaṅku, Lohitāṅga, Bṛhaspati, Budha, and all the harsh planets converged upon Soma and took their positions. The stars lost their radiance, the planets their brilliance, and Viśākhā appeared in the sky, shrouded in smoke. As Rama left for the forest, the city of Ayodhya trembled, like the mighty ocean agitated by a fierce black wind. Darkness seemed to envelop all directions, obscuring planets, stars, and everything else from view. Suddenly, misery overtook the people of the city. No one cared for food or recreation; everyone was beset by waves of grief as they sighed deeply, lamenting for their lord and protector. On the royal road, faces streaked with tears replaced all joy with sorrow. The cool wind ceased to blow, the moon lost its gentle beauty, and the sun no longer warmed the earth. All the world seemed disturbed. Women, their sons, husbands, and brothers, though not seeking anything for themselves, abandoned all concerns and thought only of Rama. All of Rama’s friends, their minds bewildered and crushed by grief, could not even bring themselves to sleep. Ayodhya, bereft of her great soul, shook as if the earth itself, shorn of Indra and his mountains, was seized by terrible fear and sorrow. The city’s elephants, warriors, and horses roared in distress. As Rama’s chariot rolled away, the king of the Ikshvakus stood watching, his eyes fixed on the dust rising from his son’s path. For as long as he could see that dust, his longing to see his beloved son only grew. But when even the dust vanished from sight, the king, stricken with grief, collapsed to the ground. At his right side stood Kausalya, her arms adorned, and at his left, Kaikeyi, slender-waisted, accompanied him. The king, wise, righteous, and humble, though overcome by sorrow, turned to Kaikeyi and spoke with pain: “Kaikeyi, do not touch me. You, who are resolved on evil, are no longer my wife nor my kin. I renounce you, for you have abandoned righteousness for your own gain. Whatever vows I made with you, whatever sacred fire we circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. And if Bharata, having gained this imperishable kingdom, were to give me anything, let that gift not come to me.” Queen Kausalya, herself consumed by grief, gently raised the fallen king from the dust and withdrew with him. The king, tormented by thoughts of his son, felt as one who had committed a great sin or touched fire with his bare hand. He sat by the path of Rama’s chariot, his appearance dulled like the moon whose light is swallowed. Turning again and again to look back, he mourned, recalling his beloved son. Learning that Rama had reached the outskirts of the city, he spoke in anguish: “I can see the tracks of the finest chariots that carried my son, but that great-souled one himself is gone from sight. He, who once slept on beds scented with sandalwood, attended by noble women, now must be resting somewhere at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or stone. “He will rise from the earth, pitiable, covered in dust, sighing deeply—like a lordly elephant emerging from a lotus pond. Surely, the forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rama, the lord of the people, walking forth as if he were without protection.” Thus, grief and sorrow spread through Ayodhya and all its people, as the beloved Rama, the very heart of the kingdom, journeyed into exile.