Having crossed the river, the illustrious and mighty-armed Rāma reached a great and safe road, one free from thorns—a path that would strike fear only in those who are themselves fearful. Desiring to protect the people of Ayodhyā from further sorrow and to mislead any citizens who might follow, Rāma spoke to his charioteer: “Turn the chariot northward, O charioteer, and proceed along that way.” He then instructed, “After driving swiftly for a while, turn the chariot back again, so that the citizens may not know my path; do this with care.” Hearing Rāma’s words, the charioteer did as he was told. After carrying out Rāma’s instructions and returning, he reported the chariot’s readiness. Then, those two scions of the Raghu dynasty, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, together with Sītā, mounted the yoked chariot. The charioteer urged the horses onward, guiding them along the path toward the hermitage. Thus, the mighty son of Daśaratha, with the charioteer beside him, set out for the forest, having turned the chariot northward, and observed auspicious omens for the journey ahead. Now, hear the next chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As the night gave way to morning, the citizens of Ayodhyā, bereft of Rāma, were frozen in grief, their hearts utterly broken. Overwhelmed by tears born of sorrow, they gazed again and again along the path, but those afflicted souls could not even catch a glimpse of Rāma. Their faces, marked by anguish and longing, were deprived of the wise prince. 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 Rāma, broad-chested and mighty-armed. How has Rāma, ever true to his word and great of arm, abandoned his devoted people and gone away as an ascetic? He who always protected us as a father protects his sons—how has that foremost of the Raghu lineage left us and gone to the forest?” Despairing, they declared, “Let us meet our end here itself, or undertake the great departure; what purpose is there in living, deprived of Rāma? 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, ‘Rāghava was led away by us’?” They lamented for their city, saying, “Surely that city will be forlorn, seeing us return without Rāghava; it will become joyless, filled only 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?” Thus, raising their arms in anguish, the people uttered many such words, lamenting in distress like cows bereft of their calves. Following the path for a while, their hope was soon replaced by great despair as they lost track of the way. Tracing the marks of the chariot, those thoughtful ones turned back, bewildered: “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” they wondered. With weary hearts, they all returned by the same route to Ayodhyā, the city now troubled and heavy with sorrow. Beholding their beloved city, their minds agitated by the loss of Rāma, they shed tears from eyes afflicted by grief. “This city, bereft of Rāma, does not shine,” they murmured, “like a river whose serpents have been snatched away by Garuḍa from its pool. Like the sky without the moon, like the ocean without water, we see the city, bereft of joy, our minds bewildered.” Entering their rich and splendid mansions, oppressed by sorrow and overwhelmed by grief, they could not recognize their own people or others. They gazed about, their joy utterly vanished. As they remained thus distressed and deeply afflicted, their eyes filled with tears, overwhelmed by sorrow and even the wish to die, the city-dwellers, after following Rāma and returning, seemed as if their very spirits had departed, their minds lost in grief. 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 great gains; 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 us, or wives, or wealth? What use are sons or even pleasures, for those who do not see Rāghava?” they asked. “Only one true man remains in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, follows Kakutstha Rāma, serving him in the forest. Blessed are those rivers, those lotus-filled lakes and ponds, in whose pure waters Kakutstha will bathe. The delightful forests, the great rivers, the vast marshlands, and the mountains with their peaks will all bring beauty to Kakutstha. Any forest or mountain that Rāma approaches will not fail to honor him as a beloved guest who has arrived. With crowns of varied flowers and abundant offerings, even out of season, the finest blossoms and fruits will appear. Even out of season, the best flowers and fruits will be shown to Rāma by the mountains, out of compassion, when he arrives. The mountains will pour forth pure waters, revealing many wondrous and colorful waterfalls.” Thus, the city of Ayodhyā, its people, and its very heart, mourned the departure of their beloved Rāma, while the forests and rivers awaited the coming of the noble prince, ready to honor him in their own way.