The people of Ayodhyā were plunged into deep sorrow and confusion after Rāma’s departure. They wondered aloud, “How has Rāma—mighty of arm, ever steadfast in his word—abandoned his devoted subjects and set forth as an ascetic? He, who always protected us as a father does his sons, that foremost of the Raghu lineage—how could he leave us behind and go to the forest?” Their despair was so great that they questioned the very purpose of living without Rāma. “Let us meet our end here itself, or undertake the great departure—what use is life now that we are bereft of him?” Looking at the abundance of dry wood around them, they suggested, “Let us kindle a funeral pyre and enter it together—what else is left for us?” They could not fathom what to say to Rāma, that gentle, mighty-armed, sweet-spoken, and forgiving soul: “How could we ever tell him, ‘Rāghava was led away by us’?” The city, they lamented, would become joyless and forlorn, filled only with women, children, and the aged, once it saw them return without Rāghava. “Having departed with that heroic and noble-souled one, how shall we ever again look upon our city?” Raising their arms in anguish, the people cried out many such laments, grieving like cows bereft of their calves. As they continued along the path, sorrow overwhelmed them, and they lost their way, their hearts heavy with despair. Following the tracks of Rāma’s chariot, they soon realized their confusion and turned back, exclaiming, “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” With weary hearts, they made their way back to Ayodhyā, a city now troubled and full of sorrow. As they beheld their beloved city, their minds were agitated by the loss, and tears streamed from eyes red with grief. “This city, without Rāma, shines no more,” they thought, “like a river whose serpents have been snatched away by Garuḍa, or like the sky without the moon, or the ocean drained of water.” The city was bereft of joy, and its people wandered bewildered. Returning to their splendid homes, all were overwhelmed by sorrow and grief. They could not even recognize their own kin or neighbors, so clouded were their minds and so vanished their happiness. Distressed and deeply afflicted, their eyes brimming with tears, the people were overwhelmed by sorrow and even wished for death. Having followed Rāma and now returned, it was as if their very spirits had departed, and their minds were lost. Each went back to their own house, surrounded by children and spouses, but all wept, their faces veiled in tears. No one rejoiced or found gladness; merchants made no display of their wares, and nothing seemed attractive—not even the prospect of a meal. Even those who recovered lost wealth did not celebrate, nor did mothers rejoice at the birth of their firstborn sons. In every house, women wept and reproached their husbands for returning, their words sharp with grief. “What use are houses, or wives, or wealth? What use are sons or pleasures, for those who do not see Rāghava?” they cried. “Only one true man remains in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, follows Kakutstha Rāma and serves him in the forest.” Their thoughts turned to the forests and rivers, and they declared, “Blessed are those rivers, those lotus-filled lakes and ponds, whose pure waters Kakutstha will bathe in. The delightful forests, the great rivers and marshlands, the mountains with their peaks—all will bring beauty to Kakutstha. Any forest or mountain that Rāma approaches will surely honor him as a beloved guest. Even out of season, the finest blossoms and fruits will appear for him, offered by the mountains out of compassion.” They imagined the mountains pouring forth pure waters and revealing wondrous, colorful waterfalls. The trees on the mountain peaks, they said, would delight Rāghava, for wherever Rāma is, there can be neither fear nor defeat. “He is a hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha; before he goes far, let us follow Rāghava! The shade of such a great soul as our lord is comforting—he is our protector, our refuge, and our goal.” The women, in their grief, urged their husbands, “We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava.” They spoke thus, their words heavy with longing. “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and security in the forest, and Sītā will provide for the well-being of these people. Who could find joy in this unpleasant city, filled with anxious, distracted minds?” Their sorrow turned to anger at Kaikeyī. “If Kaikeyī rules unrighteously, as if without guardianship, then life holds no value for us—not sons, not wealth. She who has abandoned her own son and husband for the sake of power—whom else would Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, not forsake? We will not remain in the kingdom as servants under Kaikeyī; while she lives, we curse even living with our sons. Who could live happily with such a wicked, unrighteous woman, who has banished the king’s son?” They concluded in utter despair, “All is afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless; because of Kaikeyī, everything will soon come to ruin.” Thus, the city of Ayodhyā mourned the absence of Rāma, their hearts shattered, their world plunged into darkness.