As the people of Ayodhyā trudged along the path, wearied by sorrow, their hearts were heavy with grief and confusion. They wondered aloud, “What shall we say to the mighty-armed, gentle, ever-sweet-spoken Rāma? How can we bear to admit that we, ourselves, led Rāghava away?” The thought of returning without him filled them with dread, for they knew the city would be forlorn, stripped of its joy, left only with women, children, and the aged. They lamented, “Having departed with that heroic, noble-souled one, and now bereft of him, how shall we again behold our beloved city?” Raising their arms in anguish, the people poured out their sorrow, their words tumbling forth in distress, like cows lamenting the loss of their calves. They pressed on a little further, but soon, overwhelmed by despair and having lost their way, they faltered. Following the tracks of the chariot, those thoughtful ones turned back, bewildered and lamenting, “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” With heavy hearts, they retraced their steps, returning to Ayodhyā, now a city of troubled souls. As they entered, their minds agitated by loss, they could not hold back their tears. The city, bereft of Rāma, no longer shone; it was like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuḍa, its spirit drained. It seemed as desolate as the sky without the moon, or the ocean without water—joyless, bewildering to behold. They wandered into their once-splendid mansions, but sorrow and grief overwhelmed them. In their pain, they could not distinguish between their own people and others; they gazed about, their joy utterly vanished. Distressed, their eyes brimming with tears, they were overwhelmed by a wish for death, so deep was their affliction. Having followed Rāma only to return, the city-dwellers seemed like empty shells, as if their spirits had departed and their minds were lost. Each went back to their own home, surrounded by children and spouses, but all shed tears, their faces veiled by weeping. Joy had vanished; none rejoiced, none were gladdened. Merchants did not display their wares, goods no longer attracted the eye, and householders did not even cook their meals. Even when lost wealth was recovered, no one celebrated. A mother, upon receiving her firstborn son, did not rejoice. In every home, women wept and reproached their husbands for returning, their words sharp and stinging, their grief unbearable. “What use are houses, or wives, or wealth? What use are sons or pleasures, for those who do not see Rāghava?” They spoke with longing, “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 and lotus-filled lakes and ponds, in whose pure waters Kakutstha will bathe. The delightful forests, great rivers, vast marshlands, and the mountains with their peaks will all bring beauty to Kakutstha.” They imagined, “Wherever Rāma goes, the forests and mountains will honor him as a beloved guest. With crowns of varied flowers and abundant offerings—even out of season—the finest blossoms and fruits will appear. The mountains, out of compassion, will offer their best to Rāma, pouring forth pure waters and revealing wondrous, colorful waterfalls. The trees on the mountain peaks will delight Rāghava. Wherever Rāma is, there is no fear, nor can there be defeat, for he is a hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha. Before he goes far, let us follow Rāghava.” They yearned for his presence, “The shade of such a great soul as our lord is comforting; he is our protector, our refuge, our goal. We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava,” the women said to their husbands in their grief. “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and security in the forest, and Sītā, though a woman, will provide for the welfare and security of these people.” They despaired of their city, “Who could find joy in this unpleasant dwelling, with its 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 own son and husband for the sake of power—whom else would Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, not forsake?” Their bitterness grew, “We would not remain in the kingdom as servants under Kaikeyī. While she lives, we curse even living with our sons. Who, having encountered that cruel woman who banishes 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 doom, “With Rāma gone into exile, the king will not survive; when Daśaratha dies, destruction will surely follow. Drink poison, you who are depleted of merit and in dire straits; or follow Rāghava, or else go to oblivion. Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, has left us to Bharata, like beasts handed over to a hunter.” And in their hearts, they remembered Rāma: the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned, with a face like the full moon, his collarbone concealed, destroyer of foes, long-armed, lotus-eyed—whose absence had plunged Ayodhyā into darkness and despair.