Those who had always looked to Rāma as their protector, caring for them as a father does his sons, now found themselves abandoned, unable to comprehend how the foremost of the Raghu lineage could have left them and gone to the forest. Grief overwhelmed their hearts, and they cried out, "What purpose is there in living, deprived of Rāma? Let us meet our end here itself or undertake the great departure." Their despair grew so deep that they contemplated gathering the abundant dry wood around them, kindling a great funeral pyre, and entering it together, unable to imagine life without Rāma. Torn by sorrow, they wondered what they could possibly say to the mighty-armed, gentle, and sweet-spoken Rāghava if they ever saw him again. How could they bear to admit, "Rāghava was led away by us"? The very thought was unbearable. They pictured Ayodhyā, their beloved city, left behind in joyless desolation, filled only with women, children, and the aged—a city bereft of its life and light. Having set out with the heroic and noble-souled Rāma, and now left behind, they questioned how they could ever return to that city and look upon it again. As they raised their arms and lamented, their cries echoed like the lowing of cows bereft of their calves, their sorrow unrestrained. As they continued along the path, confusion and despair overtook them, for they lost their way, both literally and in spirit. Following the tracks of Rāma's chariot, they turned back, bewildered and defeated, asking one another, "What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?" Their hearts heavy with weariness, they retraced their steps to Ayodhyā, a city now filled with troubled souls. When at last they beheld their city, their minds agitated by grief, tears flowed freely from their eyes. Ayodhyā, without Rāma, had lost its radiance, like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuḍa, or like the sky without the moon, or the ocean drained of water. The city was joyless, and those who entered their once-splendid mansions wandered about, unable to recognize their own families or others, so great was their sorrow and bewilderment. Deeply afflicted, their eyes swollen with tears and hearts overwhelmed by the wish for death, the city-dwellers seemed as though their very spirits had departed after following Rāma and then returning. Each made their way to their own home, surrounded by children and spouses, yet all wept, their faces hidden behind their tears. No one rejoiced, and no one found gladness. Merchants did not display their wares, and goods lost all their appeal. Even householders neglected to cook meals. Even when lost wealth was recovered, no one celebrated, nor did mothers rejoice even upon receiving their firstborn sons. In every home, women wept and reproached their husbands who had returned, their words sharp and cutting, tormented by grief. "What use are houses, wives, or wealth?" they cried. "What use are sons or pleasures for those who cannot see Rāghava?" They mourned that only one true man remained in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, followed Kakutstha Rāma and served him in the forest. Blessed, they thought, were the rivers, the lotus-filled lakes and ponds, whose pure waters Rāma would now bathe in. The delightful forests, the great rivers, the vast marshlands, and the mountains with their peaks would all bring their beauty to Rāma. Wherever Rāma went, the forests and mountains would surely honor him as a beloved guest, offering crowns of varied flowers and abundant gifts—even out of season, the finest blossoms and fruits would appear for him. The mountains would pour forth pure waters, revealing wondrous, colorful waterfalls, and the trees on the peaks would delight Rāghava. Wherever Rāma was, there could be no fear, nor could there be defeat, for he was a hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha. In their longing, they resolved, "Before he goes too 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 of the city, in their grief, spoke to their husbands, "We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava. He will ensure your welfare and security in the forest, and Sītā will provide for the welfare and security of these people." They lamented the loss of joy in their homes and city, now an unpleasant dwelling filled with anxious, distracted people. "If Kaikeyī rules, unrighteously and as if without guardianship, then life holds no value for us—not sons, not wealth. She who has abandoned her son and husband for the sake of power—whom else would Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, not forsake?" Their anger and sorrow deepened. "We will not remain in the kingdom as servants under Kaikeyī; even living with our sons, we curse our lives while she rules. Who, having encountered that cruel woman who banished the king's son, could live happily with such a wicked, unrighteous one? All is afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless; because of Kaikeyī, everything will soon come to ruin." They foresaw only disaster ahead: "With Rāma gone into exile, the king will not survive; when Daśaratha dies, destruction will surely follow." Thus, the people of Ayodhyā, overwhelmed by grief and despair, mourned their loss and the fate that had befallen their beloved city.