As Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita settled into their forest dwelling, Rama turned to his brother Saumitri and said, “Let us offer the meat of a deer here in our hut, Lakshmana. Those who desire a long life must perform the ritual for settling a new home.” He instructed Lakshmana, “Go swiftly, kill a deer, and bring it here. Remember the rule prescribed in the scriptures—this is the righteous way.” Understanding his brother’s command, Lakshmana, ever the obedient and valiant son of Sumitra, did as he was told. When he returned, Rama spoke again, “Let this black antelope be prepared as an offering. We must perform the sacrifice without delay. Hurry, gentle one, for the day is passing.” Lakshmana, powerful and resolute, went forth, killed a pure black antelope, and cast it into the blazing fire. When he saw that the meat was thoroughly cooked, roasted well and free of blood, Lakshmana, that tiger among men, addressed Rama: “O noble one, the black antelope is now fully prepared, cooked as it should be. Like a god among men, offer the sacrifice, for you are skilled in the sacred rites.” Rama, self-controlled, virtuous, and learned in the sacred chants, bathed himself and then recited all the concluding mantras of the sacrifice. Having worshipped all the hosts of gods, Rama, pure and radiant, entered the shelter, his heart filled with joy. He performed the Vaiśvadeva offering, as well as the fierce and Vaiṣṇava rites, and began the auspicious ceremonies to pacify their new dwelling. With proper prayers and a ritual bath in the river, Rama performed the highest offering to remove any lingering sin. He established altars, shrines, and sanctuaries suitable for a hermitage, and, following Vedic tradition, adorned the place with forest garlands, fruits, roots, ripe meats, water for libations, sacred darbha grass, and kindling. Together, the two brothers and Sita satisfied the beings of the forest and, marked by auspicious signs, entered their beautiful shelter. That delightful hut, well-built and sheltered from the wind, became their home, and they entered it as joyfully as the gods enter their noble assembly halls. In that excellent forest, resounding with the calls of wild beasts, filled with many kinds of deer and birds, and adorned with blossoming trees, they found happiness and contentment, having mastered their senses. Reaching the picturesque mountain and the sacred river Mālyavatī, frequented by deer and birds, Rama’s heart was uplifted. Amidst the beauty of nature, he let go of the sorrow caused by his exile from the city. Now, the story moves on. The fifty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, is to be heard. After a long conversation, overwhelmed with sorrow, Guha returned to his own home with Sumantra, once Rama and his companions had 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 present. Then Sumantra, having been permitted by Rama, yoked the excellent horses and, his heart heavy with grief, set out for the city of Ayodhya. As he traveled swiftly, he beheld fragrant forests, rivers, lakes, villages, and cities along the way. On the evening of the third day, Sumantra reached Ayodhya. He saw the city bereft of joy—silent and deserted. Deeply distressed and overcome by a surge of sorrow, Sumantra was lost in thought: “Has this city, with its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, been consumed by the fire of grief for Rama?” Filled with anxious thoughts, the charioteer, with his swift-footed horses, hurriedly entered the city gate. As he approached, hundreds and thousands of men rushed toward him, crying, “Where is Rama?” Sumantra replied, “After taking leave of Raghava at the Ganga, I was permitted to return by that righteous, great-souled one.” When the people learned that Rama had crossed the river, their faces filled with tears, and they cried out in anguish, “Alas! Fie! Ah, Rama!” Sumantra heard their words as they stood together in grief: “Truly, we are ruined, for we do not see Raghava here. In gifts, sacrifices, weddings, and great assemblies, never again shall we see righteous Rama among us. What is beneficial for these people? What brings happiness?” For Rama had governed the city like a loving father. He heard the lamentation of women, scorched by grief for Rama, their cries drifting from the inner markets along the wind-swept paths. Covering his face, Sumantra made his way down the royal road to the house where King Dasaratha 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 Rama. Their wide, clear eyes overflowed with tears as they looked at each other, their grief so deep that their words were indistinct. From the palaces of Dasaratha’s women, Sumantra heard their soft murmuring, tormented by sorrow for Rama. He thought, “Having departed with Rama and now returned without him, what indeed will I say to Kausalya as she grieves?” Sumantra reflected with a heavy heart, “Truly, living is difficult—indeed, not easy at all—especially when Kausalya remains alive after her beloved son has departed.