Entering their splendid and once-joyful mansions, the people of Ayodhyā were now weighed down by overwhelming sorrow. Their grief was so deep that, as they gazed around, they could not recognize even their own family members, nor distinguish others; all joy had vanished from their hearts. Distressed and afflicted, tears welled in their eyes, and a wish for death mingled with their sorrow. Having followed Rāma for as long as they could and then returned, the citizens seemed like souls bereft of life, their minds lost and wandering. Each person went back to their home, surrounded by their children and spouses, yet all shed tears, their faces hidden by grief. No one found joy; no one was gladdened. The merchants no longer displayed their wares, and goods themselves no longer seemed attractive. Householders did not prepare meals, and even if someone recovered lost wealth, there was no celebration—no mother rejoiced even at the birth of her firstborn son. In every house, women wept and reproached their husbands for returning home, their words sharp and stinging, like goads to elephants, as they were tormented by grief. They cried, “What use are homes, wives, or riches? What use are sons or pleasures, for those who cannot see Rāghava? Only one true man remains in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, follows Kakutstha Rāma and serves him in the forest. “Blessed are those rivers, those lotus-filled lakes and ponds, in whose pure waters Kakutstha will bathe. The delightful forests, the great rivers, the marshlands, and the mountains with their peaks will all bring beauty to Kakutstha. Any forest or mountain that Rāma approaches will not fail to 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 for him. The mountains will pour forth pure waters, revealing wondrous and colorful waterfalls, and 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. “The shade of such a great soul as our lord is comforting; he is our protector, our refuge, and our goal. We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava.” Thus, in their grief, the women spoke many words to their husbands. “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and security in the forest; Sītā, a woman herself, will care for the welfare and safety of these people. “Who could find joy in this unpleasant dwelling, with its unwelcoming, anxious people and their distracted minds? If Kaikeyī rules, unrighteously and as if without guardianship, then life holds no value for us—nor sons, nor 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; while she lives, we curse even living with our sons. 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. 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 helpless beasts handed over to a hunter. “Rāma, elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned with a face like the full moon, his collarbone hidden, destroyer of foes, long-armed and lotus-eyed—he speaks first, sweetly and truthfully; he is of great strength, gentle, beloved by all people, pleasing to behold like the moon. Surely that tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, will beautify the forests as he roams, that great chariot-warrior.” Thus, the women of the city lamented, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death itself was near; they cried out in their homes for Rāghava. As they wept for him, the sun set and night arrived. The fires were extinguished, conversations and stories fell silent, and the city shone as if enveloped in darkness. Merchants’ goods were hidden away, joy was lost, and shelter seemed absent—Ayodhyā became like the sky bereft of stars. Distressed for Rāma, the women grieved as if for a son or brother sent away; they wept, miserable and bewildered, for their sons, yet their sorrow for Rāma was greater. Ayodhyā became as silent as a vast ocean whose waters have receded: songs, festivals, dances, and music were subdued, joy had vanished, and the markets were closed. Thus concludes the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Meanwhile, Rāma—the tiger among men—journeyed far through the remainder of the night, his mind ever dwelling on his father’s command.