Even when lost wealth was recovered, no one in Ayodhyā rejoiced as they once would; not even mothers celebrated when they received their firstborn sons. In every home, the women wept bitterly, their words sharp and pained as they reproached their husbands who had returned from the city, their grief too much to bear. “What use are houses, wives, or wealth to us now?” they lamented. “What joy is there in sons or pleasures, when we cannot see Rāghava?” In their eyes, only one true man remained in the world—Lakṣmaṇa, who, together with Sītā, followed Kakutstha Rāma and served him faithfully in the forest. They spoke with longing, “Blessed are those rivers, those lotus-filled lakes and ponds, whose pure waters Kakutstha will bathe in. Fortunate are the delightful forests, the great rivers, the vast marshlands, and the mountains with their peaks—they will all bring beauty to Kakutstha. Wherever Rāma approaches, the forests and mountains will surely 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 and reveal wondrous, colorful waterfalls. The trees on the mountain peaks will delight Rāghava; wherever Rāma is present, there will be no fear, nor defeat. “He is our hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha. Before he goes too 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,” so the women urged their husbands in their sorrow. “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and safety in the forest; Sītā, a woman herself, will care for the well-being and security of these people. Who could find joy in this unpleasant city, filled with anxious, distracted minds and unwelcoming hearts? If Kaikeyī rules, unrighteously and 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—who else would Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, not forsake? We will not remain in the kingdom as her servants; while she lives, we curse even living with our sons. Who, having encountered such a cruel woman who banishes the king’s son, could find happiness with one so wicked and unrighteous? 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 beasts handed over to a hunter. “Rāma, elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned, with a face like the full moon, a concealed collarbone, destroyer of foes, long-armed, lotus-eyed—he speaks first, sweetly and truthfully, and is of great strength. Gentle, beloved by all, 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, as the women of the city lamented, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death itself approached, their cries echoed through their homes. They grieved for Rāghava as one would for a son or brother sent away, weeping miserably and bewildered for their own sons, yet their sorrow for him was greater. As the sun set and night arrived, Ayodhyā became silent. The fires were extinguished, conversations and stories ceased, and the city was enveloped in darkness. The markets were closed, merchants’ goods quieted, joy lost, and shelter gone—Ayodhyā resembled the sky bereft of stars. Songs, festivals, dances, and music were subdued; joy vanished, and the city became as silent as a vast ocean whose waters had receded. Thus, distressed for Rāma, the women mourned, and all Ayodhyā grieved, its heart hollow with loss. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, journeyed far through the remainder of the night, his mind ever recalling his father’s command. As the auspicious night passed, he worshipped the sacred dawn and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly he passed villages with distant borders and blooming forests, observing them as he went, moving as swiftly as arrows shot from excellent horses. Along the way, he heard the voices of the people in the villages, their words heavy with sorrow: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, today Kaikeyī is cruel, sinful, and bound to evil; she has broken boundaries and acts harshly. She sends the righteous son of the king, wise, compassionate, and diligent, into exile in the forest.” Thus, the grief of Ayodhyā echoed in the land, while Rāma continued on his path, his heart steady, bearing the burden of exile with dignity.