As the chariot carrying Rāma departed, the people who had followed him paused in their tracks, their minds heavy with sorrow. They looked at one another in confusion and despair, asking, “What is this fate that has struck us? What can we do now?” With heavy hearts, these thoughtful citizens turned back along the same path by which they had come, retracing their steps toward Ayodhyā—a city now burdened with grief. Upon reaching the city, their hearts ached with loss. Tears welled in their eyes as they gazed upon Ayodhyā, the sight of which now only deepened their sorrow. The city, once radiant, seemed bereft of all splendor without Rāma. It was as if a river had been robbed of its serpents by mighty Garuḍa, leaving its waters empty and lifeless. Ayodhyā appeared like a sky without the moon, or an ocean drained of its water—utterly devoid of joy, leaving the people bewildered and lost. Entering their grand and opulent homes, the people, overwhelmed by grief, could not recognize even their own family members or neighbors. Their eyes searched in vain, but all joy had vanished from their hearts. Distressed and deeply afflicted, they wept, their eyes brimming with tears, overcome by sorrow and even a longing for death. After their journey following Rāma and their return, it was as if the very spirit of the city-dwellers had departed. Their minds wandered, lost in grief. Each person went back to their home, surrounded by children and spouses, but all were shrouded in tears, their faces hidden by their weeping. No one in Ayodhyā found joy. There was no gladness, no laughter. Merchants did not display their wares, and nothing in the marketplace enticed the eyes. Even in the homes, no one cooked meals. If someone recovered lost wealth, there was no celebration. A mother, even upon receiving her firstborn son, could not rejoice. In every house, women wept bitterly, reproaching their husbands who had returned home. Their words, sharp as the goad to an elephant, were driven by the torment of grief: “What use are these houses, our wives, our wealth? What use are sons or pleasures, when we cannot see Rāghava?” They lamented, “Only one true man remains in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, with Sītā, follows noble Rāma into the forest, serving him with devotion. Blessed are those rivers, those lotus-filled lakes and ponds, whose pure waters Kakutstha Rāma will bathe in. The forests, the great rivers, the marshlands, and the mountain peaks will all become beautiful for Rāma’s sake. Wherever Rāma goes, the forests and mountains will honor him as a beloved guest. Even out of season, the finest blossoms and fruits will appear, offered in abundance by the compassionate mountains. They will pour forth pure waters, revealing wondrous and colorful waterfalls. The trees atop the mountains will delight Rāghava. Where Rāma is, there is no fear, nor can there be defeat, for he is a mighty hero, the son of Daśaratha. Let us not delay—before he goes far, let us follow Rāghava. The shade of such a great soul is comforting; he is our protector, our refuge, and our goal.” The women, 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 us. What joy can we find in this city now, filled with anxious and distracted people? If Kaikeyī rules unrighteously, as if without guardianship, then life itself holds no value for us—not sons, nor wealth. She has abandoned both her husband and son for power. Who else would Kaikeyī, the disgrace of her lineage, not forsake? We cannot remain in this kingdom as her servants. While she lives, we curse even living with our sons. Who could find happiness in the presence of that cruel woman who banished the king’s son, that wicked and unrighteous one?” They continued, “Everything is afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless. Because of Kaikeyī, all will soon come to ruin. With Rāma gone into exile, the king will not survive; when Daśaratha dies, destruction will surely follow. Better to drink poison, or follow Rāghava, or else choose oblivion. Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, has left us to Bharata, as helpless as beasts handed over to a hunter. “Rāma, the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned with a face like the full moon, with hidden collarbone, destroyer of foes, long-armed and lotus-eyed—he who speaks first, gently and truthfully, of immense strength, beloved by all and pleasing to behold like the moon—surely this tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, will grace the forests as he roams, that great chariot-warrior.” Thus, the women of Ayodhyā lamented in their homes, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death itself were near. As they wept for Rāghava, the sun set and night descended. The city grew dark and silent, its fires extinguished, its stories and conversations stilled; Ayodhyā shone no more, enveloped in the deep shadow of grief.