When the leaf-thatched hut was completed—well-tied, beautiful, and sturdy—Rāma gazed upon it with satisfaction. Turning to his attentive younger brother, he spoke warmly, “Saumitri, let us offer the meat of a deer here in our new dwelling. Those who desire long life must perform the ritual for settling a home.” With gentle urgency, he continued, “Lakṣmaṇa, go at once, kill a deer, and bring it quickly, for this is the righteous act prescribed in the scriptures.” Understanding his elder brother’s command, Lakṣmaṇa—slayer of enemies—immediately set forth and did as Rāma had instructed. When he returned, Rāma said, “Let this black antelope be prepared for the offering. We must perform the sacrifice without delay, for the day is swiftly passing.” Lakṣmaṇa, powerful son of Sumitrā, killed a pure black antelope and cast it into the blazing fire as the rite required. Watching carefully, he waited until the meat was thoroughly roasted, free from all blood. Then, approaching Rāma, he announced, “Noble one, the black antelope is now fully prepared, cooked as it should be. You, who are skilled in the sacred rites, should now offer the sacrifice like a god among men.” Rāma, self-controlled and virtuous, learned in the sacred chants, bathed and recited all the concluding mantras of the sacrifice. Having worshipped the hosts of gods with pure heart and immeasurable brilliance, he entered the shelter, his mind filled with joy. He performed the Vaiśvadeva offering, as well as the fierce and Vaiṣṇava rites, and began the auspicious ceremonies to pacify and sanctify their new dwelling. With prayers properly recited and ablutions performed in the river according to rule, Rāma made the highest offering to remove any lingering sin. Rāma then established altars, shrines, and sanctuaries appropriate for the hermitage. With forest garlands, fruits, roots, ripe meats as prescribed, water for libations, sacred darbha grass, and kindling as taught in the Vedas, the two brothers, together with Sītā, satisfied the beings and spirits of the place. Marked by auspicious signs, they entered the beautiful shelter. That delightful hut, well-built and sheltered from the wind, became their home; as they entered together, it was as if the hosts of gods entered the noble assembly hall. In that excellent forest—resounding with wild beasts, filled with many kinds of deer and birds, and adorned with trees bearing clusters of varied flowers—Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa rejoiced happily, their senses conquered. Having reached that charming and picturesque mountain and the sacred river Mālyavatī, frequented by deer and birds, Rāma’s heart was uplifted. In the beauty and serenity of their new home, he let go of the sorrow caused by exile from his city. Now, the fifty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, is to be heard. After conversing for a long time, overwhelmed with deep sorrow, Guha, accompanied by Sumantra, returned to his own home once Rāma had safely reached the southern bank. The journey to Bharadvāja’s hermitage, their stay at Prayāga, and their ascent of the mountain were all witnessed by those who were present. Then Sumantra, having been permitted to depart, yoked his excellent horses and, though his heart was greatly troubled, set out for the city of Ayodhyā. Swiftly he journeyed, passing fragrant forests, rivers, lakes, villages, and cities. On the evening of the third day, the charioteer reached Ayodhyā and saw the city bereft of joy. Silent and deserted, the city filled Sumantra with deep distress and a surge of sorrow. He wondered, “Has this city, with its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, been consumed by the fire of grief for Rāma?” Filled with anxious thoughts, Sumantra urged his swift-footed horses onward and hurriedly entered the city gate. As he approached, hundreds and thousands of men rushed toward him, asking anxiously, “Where is Rāma?” To them he replied, “After taking leave of Rāghava at the Gaṅgā, I was permitted to return by that righteous, great-souled one.” When the people learned that Rāma and his companions had crossed the river, their faces filled with tears. They sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out, “Ah, Rāma!” Sumantra heard their words as they gathered in sorrowful groups: “Truly, we are ruined, for we do not see Rāghava here.” They lamented, “In gifts, sacrifices, weddings, and great assemblies, never again shall we see righteous Rāma among us. What is beneficial for these people? What is dear, what brings happiness?—thus was the city governed by Rāma like a father.” Sumantra heard the lamentation of women, scorched by grief for Rāma, coming from the inner markets along the wind-swept paths. Covering his face, he made his way through the middle of the royal road to the very house where King Daśaratha resided. Dismounting quickly from the chariot, he entered the royal palace, passing through seven courtyards crowded with people. From mansions, towers, and palaces, women—gathered together and crying out in anguish—gazed down, emaciated by longing for Rāma. Their wide, clear eyes brimmed with tears as they looked at each other, their grief so deep that their words were indistinct. From the palaces of Daśaratha’s women, Sumantra heard their soft murmuring, tormented by grief for Rāma. Now, having departed with Rāma and returned without him, Sumantra wondered with heavy heart, “What indeed will I say to Kausalyā as she grieves?