Lakshmana, standing beside Rama—who seemed the very embodiment of righteousness—spoke with resolve: “I agree, wise one; let us quickly ascend the chariot.” At Lakshmana’s words, Rama turned to Sumantra, the charioteer, and said, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” Sumantra, swift in his service, hastened to prepare the chariot. He yoked it with excellent horses, and with joined palms, respectfully announced to Rama, “Here is your chariot, mighty-armed prince, best among warriors, yoked and ready. Ascend quickly, with Sita and Lakshmana. May all be well with you.” With his attendants, Rama mounted the chariot. Together with Sita and Lakshmana, he crossed the swift and swirling Tamasa river. Having crossed, the illustrious, mighty-armed Rama reached a great road—safe, free from thorns, and yet fearful to those who are timid. Then, wishing to mislead the citizens who might follow, Rama spoke to Sumantra: “Turn the chariot northward, O charioteer, and proceed. After driving swiftly for a while, turn the chariot back again, so that the citizens may not know my path; do this with care.” Sumantra, heeding Rama’s words, did as he was told, and returning, reported the chariot to Rama. Once again, Rama and Lakshmana, scions of the Raghu line, along with Sita, mounted the ready chariot. The charioteer urged the horses onward along the path to the hermitage. The mighty son of Dasaratha, together with Sumantra, set out for the forest, the chariot facing north, and auspicious omens blessing their journey. When the night had passed, the citizens who had followed Rama were motionless with grief, their hearts broken at being bereft of him. Overwhelmed by tears born of sorrow, gazing again and again along the path, they could not catch even a glimpse of Rama. Their faces were stricken with grief, deprived of that wise one. The compassionate and learned among them spoke words of lamentation. “Fie upon that sleep which steals away the mind!” they cried. “Today we cannot see Rama, broad-chested and mighty-armed. How has Rama, ever true to his word, abandoned his devoted people and gone away as an ascetic? He who always protected us like a father his sons—how has that foremost of the Raghu lineage left us and gone to the forest?” In their despair, they exclaimed, “Let us meet our end here itself, or undertake the great departure; what purpose is there in living, deprived of Rama? There are dry woods in abundance, large and plentiful; let us all kindle a funeral pyre with them and enter it, or else—what shall we say to the mighty-armed, unresentful, sweet-spoken one? How can we bear to say, ‘Raghava was led away by us’?” They mourned for their city: “Surely that city will be forlorn, seeing us without Raghava; it will become joyless, filled with women, children, and the aged. Having departed with that heroic, noble-souled one, and now bereft of him, how shall we again behold that city?” Raising their arms, they lamented in distress, like cows bereft of their calves. Following the path for a while, they soon became overwhelmed by despair, unable to find their way. Tracing the tracks of the chariot, those thoughtful ones turned back, saying, “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” With weary hearts, they all returned by the same route to Ayodhya, the city now filled with troubled people. Beholding their city, their minds agitated by loss, they shed tears from grief-stricken eyes. Ayodhya, bereft of Rama, did not shine; it was like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuda, or like the sky without the moon, or the ocean without water. Their city was joyless, and their minds bewildered. Entering their rich and splendid mansions, afflicted by sorrow and overwhelmed by grief, they could not recognize their own people or others, gazing about, their joy utterly vanished. Thus distressed and deeply afflicted, their eyes filled with tears, overwhelmed by sorrow and the wish to die, the citizens who had followed Rama and then returned seemed as if their spirits had departed, their minds lost. Each returned to their own home, surrounded by children and spouses, and all shed tears, their faces veiled by weeping. No one rejoiced, no one was gladdened; merchants did not display their wares, and goods did not appear attractive, nor did householders cook meals. Even upon recovering lost wealth, no one celebrated; nor did a mother rejoice when she received her firstborn son. In every house, women wept and reproached their husbands who had returned home, their words sharp as goads to elephants, tormented by grief. “What use are houses to them, or wives, or wealth? What use are sons or even pleasures, for those who do not see Raghava?” they cried. They proclaimed, “Only one true man remains in the world—Lakshmana, who, together with Sita, follows Kakutstha Rama, serving him in the forest. Blessed are those rivers, those lotus-filled lakes and ponds, in whose pure waters Kakutstha will bathe.” Thus, Ayodhya mourned, its people lost in grief, their hearts yearning for Rama, their beloved prince.