As the people of Ayodhyā returned to their beloved city, their hearts were heavy with sorrow and their eyes filled with tears, for the pain of losing Rāma agitated their minds. The city itself seemed stripped of all its glory; without Rāma, it shone no more, just as a river loses its splendor when Garuḍa snatches away its serpents from its pools. Ayodhyā appeared to them like a moonless sky or an ocean drained of water—bereft of joy, leaving its citizens bewildered and lost. Entering their once splendid and opulent mansions, the people wandered, overwhelmed by grief, unable to recognize their own families or neighbors. Their joy had utterly vanished, and everywhere they looked, sorrow prevailed. Distressed and deeply afflicted, their eyes brimming with tears, many were so overwhelmed by their anguish and longing for Rāma that they even wished for death. Having followed Rāma on his departure and then returned, the city-dwellers seemed like empty shells, their spirits departed and their minds adrift. Each went back to their own homes, surrounded by children and spouses, but all sat weeping, their faces veiled by tears. There was no rejoicing, no gladness anywhere; merchants did not display their wares, goods lost all attraction, and householders did not bother to prepare meals. Even when people recovered lost wealth, there was no celebration; mothers did not rejoice even when receiving their firstborn sons. In every house, women wept and turned to their husbands with words sharp as goads, tormented by grief and reproach. They cried, “What use are these houses, or wives, or wealth to us now? What meaning have sons or pleasures, when we cannot see Rāghava?” They declared, “Only one true man remains—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, follows Kakutstha Rāma and serves him in the forest. Blessed are the rivers, the lotus-filled lakes, and the ponds whose pure waters will bathe Kakutstha. The delightful forests, vast marshlands, and mighty mountains will bring him beauty and comfort. Wherever Rāma goes, the forests and mountains will honor him as a beloved guest. Even out of season, the mountains will offer him the finest flowers and fruits, moved by compassion. They will pour forth pure waters and reveal wondrous, colorful waterfalls. The trees on the mountain peaks will delight Rāghava, for where Rāma dwells, there is neither fear nor defeat.” They continued, “He is a hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha. Before he goes too far, let us follow Rāghava! The shade of such a great soul is comforting; he is our protector, refuge, and highest goal. We will serve Sītā, and you, our husbands, will serve Rāghava.” Thus, in their grief, the women spoke various heartfelt words to their husbands. They lamented, “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and safety in the forest, and Sītā, though a woman, will provide for the welfare of us all. Who could find joy in this city now, with its anxious, distracted people and unwelcoming homes? If Kaikeyī rules unrighteously, as if there were no guardians, then life, sons, and wealth mean nothing to us.” Their sorrow deepened as they spoke of Kaikeyī: “She 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 this kingdom as servants under her rule; while she lives, we curse even living with our sons. Who could be happy in the presence of such a cruel woman who banished the king’s son, so wicked and unrighteous?” “All is afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless,” they cried. “Because of Kaikeyī, everything will soon be ruined. With Rāma exiled, the king will not survive; when Daśaratha dies, destruction will surely follow. Drink poison, you who are bereft of merit and desperate, or follow Rāghava, or else embrace oblivion. Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, has left us to Bharata, as helpless as beasts delivered into the hands of a hunter.” They remembered Rāma with longing: “Rāma, elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned, with a face like the full moon, collarbone concealed, destroyer of foes, long-armed, lotus-eyed—he speaks first, sweetly and truthfully, and is of great strength. Gentle and beloved by all, he is as pleasing to behold as the moon. Surely that tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, will beautify the forests as he roams, a great chariot-warrior.” Thus, the women of Ayodhyā lamented, tormented by sorrow and fearful, as if death itself hovered near. As they cried out for Rāghava in their homes, the sun set and night descended upon the city. Fires were extinguished, conversations and stories fell silent, and Ayodhyā shone as if enveloped in darkness. The merchants’ goods were stilled, all joy and shelter had vanished, and the city became like a starless sky. In every home, women grieved for Rāma as they would for a son or brother sent away. Though they mourned for their own sons, their sorrow for Rāma was even greater, and so they wept—miserable and bewildered, their hearts lost in longing for their beloved prince.