With heavy hearts and weary steps, the people who had accompanied Rāma on his journey now retraced their path, returning to Ayodhyā—a city now steeped in sorrow. As they beheld their beloved city, their minds churned with the pain of loss, and tears flowed freely from eyes clouded by grief. Ayodhyā, without Rāma, had lost all its luster. It seemed to them like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuḍa, its life force gone. The city appeared as bleak as a sky without the moon, or an ocean drained of its water—joyless and bewildering to those who gazed upon it. Entering their splendid mansions, the people, overwhelmed by sorrow, could not even recognize their own kin or neighbors. They looked around, but the joy that once filled their homes had utterly vanished. Distressed and deeply afflicted, their eyes brimming with tears, they were overwhelmed by a sorrow so intense it made them wish for death. Having followed Rāma and now returned, the citizens of Ayodhyā moved like empty shells, their spirits departed, their minds lost in anguish. Each person went back to their home, surrounded by children and spouses, but all wept, their faces hidden behind veils of tears. There was no joy anywhere. No one was gladdened; merchants did not display their wares, and goods lost all appeal. Even householders neglected to cook their meals. 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 home, their words as sharp and painful as goads to elephants, their grief unrelenting. “What use are these houses, or wives, or wealth?” they cried. “What value have sons or pleasures, when we cannot see Rāghava?” They declared that only one true man remained in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, faithfully followed Rāma into the forest, serving him with devotion. Blessed, they thought, were the rivers, the lotus-filled lakes and ponds, whose pure waters would now bathe Rāma. The delightful forests, the great rivers, the vast marshlands, and the mountains with their peaks would all offer their beauty to Rāma. Wherever Rāma would go, every forest or mountain would honor him as a beloved guest. With crowns of flowers and abundant offerings, even out of season, the finest blossoms and fruits would appear for him. The mountains, moved by compassion, would pour forth pure waters and display wondrous, colorful waterfalls. The trees on the mountain peaks would delight Rāma, for wherever he was, there could be no fear, nor defeat. “He is a hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha,” they said. “Before he goes too far, let us follow Rāghava. The shade of such a great soul is comforting; he is our protector, our refuge, our goal. We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava,” the women urged their husbands in their grief. “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and security in the forest, and Sītā will care for us. Who could find joy in this unpleasant city, filled with anxious and distracted people? If Kaikeyī rules, unrighteously and without guardianship, then life has 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; even living with our sons, we curse our existence 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 fall to ruin. 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 hope; or follow Rāghava, or else embrace oblivion. Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, has left us to Bharata, as beasts are given over to a hunter. “Rāma, elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned, with a face like the full moon, strong-armed, lotus-eyed, and the destroyer of foes—he speaks first, sweetly and truthfully, and is of great strength. Gentle, beloved by all, pleasing to behold like the moon, he is truly a tiger among men. With the stride of a mighty elephant, he will bring beauty to the forests as he roams, that great chariot-warrior.” Thus, the women of the city lamented, tormented by sorrow and fear, as if death itself approached. Their cries for Rāghava filled their homes as the sun set and night descended. The fires went out, conversations and stories fell silent, and the city seemed enveloped in darkness. With the merchants’ goods stilled, joy lost, and shelter gone, Ayodhyā became like the sky bereft of stars, its radiance extinguished in the absence of Rāma.