As the people of Ayodhyā awoke, they lamented the sleep that had stolen their minds, for it had deprived them of the sight of Rāma, whose broad chest and mighty arms were a source of comfort and strength. They wondered in anguish how Rāma, ever true to his word and devoted to his people, could have left them behind and departed as an ascetic. He had always protected them like a father cares for his sons, yet now, this foremost scion of the Raghu lineage had gone to the forest, leaving them bereft. Despair overwhelmed them. Some spoke of meeting their end right there, or making a great departure, for what purpose was left in living, deprived of Rāma? They pointed to the abundance of dry wood, large and plentiful, suggesting they should all kindle a funeral pyre and enter it, for life without Rāma seemed unbearable. Others wondered what they could possibly say to that mighty-armed, sweet-spoken, unresentful one. How could they bear to admit, “Rāghava was led away by us”? They foresaw the city becoming forlorn, joyless, filled only with women, children, and the aged, once it saw them return without Rāghava. Having departed with that heroic, noble-souled one, and now bereft of him, they questioned how they could ever behold their city again. With arms raised, the people uttered many such words, their lamentations echoing like cows bereft of their calves. As they followed the path, proceeding a little further, they were overcome by despair, losing their way in their grief. Tracking the route of the chariot, those thoughtful ones turned back, bewildered and struck down by fate, asking themselves what they should do. Wearily, by the same route they had come, they returned to Ayodhyā, their hearts heavy and troubled. Upon seeing their city, their minds agitated by loss, tears streamed from their eyes, afflicted by grief. Ayodhyā, bereft of Rāma, no longer shone; it was like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuḍa, or the sky without the moon, or the ocean without water. The city was joyless and bewildering to them. Entering their rich and splendid mansions, afflicted by sorrow and overwhelmed by grief, they could not recognize their own people or others. They gazed about, their joy utterly vanished. Distressed and deeply afflicted, their eyes filled with tears, the people were overwhelmed by sorrow and the wish to die. Having followed Rāma and then returned, the city-dwellers 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, goods did not appear attractive, and householders did not cook meals. Even upon recovering lost wealth, there was no celebration, nor did mothers rejoice at the birth of their firstborn sons. In every house, women wept and reproached their husbands who had returned home, their words sharp and tormenting, like goads to elephants. They questioned what use there was in houses, wives, wealth, sons, or pleasures, for those who could not see Rāghava. They declared that only one true man remained in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, followed Kakutstha Rāma, serving him in the forest. Blessed, they said, were those rivers, lotus-filled lakes, and ponds, in whose pure waters Kakutstha would bathe. The delightful forests, great rivers, vast marshlands, and mountains with their peaks would all bring beauty to Kakutstha. Any forest or mountain that Rāma approached would honor him as a beloved guest. With crowns of varied flowers and abundant offerings, even out of season, the finest blossoms and fruits would appear. Mountains would pour forth pure waters, revealing wondrous and colorful waterfalls. The trees on the mountain peaks would delight Rāghava; wherever Rāma was, there would be no fear, nor could there be defeat, for he was a hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha. Before he went far, the people resolved, they should follow Rāghava, for the shade of such a great soul as their lord was comforting. He was the protector, the refuge, and the goal of the people. The women, in their grief, spoke various words to their husbands: “We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava.” They believed Rāghava would ensure their welfare and security in the forest, and Sītā, a woman, would provide for the welfare and security of the people. Who could find joy in this unpleasant dwelling, filled with anxious, distracted people? If Kaikeyī ruled, unrighteously and as if without guardianship, then life held no value for them—not sons, nor wealth. She who had abandoned her son and husband for the sake of power, whom else would Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, not forsake? They would not remain in the kingdom as servants under Kaikeyī; while she lived, they cursed even living with their sons. Who, having encountered that cruel woman who banished the king’s son, could live happily with such a wicked, unrighteous one? Thus, the people of Ayodhyā mourned, their hearts shattered, their city transformed by grief and longing for Rāma.