As the day waned in the forest, Rāma turned to his devoted brother Lakṣmaṇa and said, “Lakṣmaṇa, kill a deer and bring it quickly, for this task must be completed. Remember the rule prescribed in the scriptures—let us act in righteousness.” Understanding his brother’s command, Lakṣmaṇa, ever the slayer of enemies, did as instructed. When he returned, Rāma spoke again: “Let this black antelope be prepared as an offering; we must perform the sacrifice. Hurry, gentle one, for the moment is fleeting and the day is passing.” Lakṣmaṇa, the powerful son of Sumitrā, swiftly killed the pure black antelope and cast it into the blazing fire. When he saw that the meat was thoroughly roasted and free of blood, Lakṣmaṇa, tiger among men, spoke to Rāma: “This black antelope is now fully prepared, O noble one, cooked as it should be. Like a god among men, offer the sacrifice, for you are skilled in the rites.” Rāma, self-controlled, virtuous, and learned in sacred chants, bathed and then recited all the concluding mantras of the sacrifice as prescribed. Having worshipped all the hosts of gods, Rāma—pure and radiant—entered the shelter, his mind filled with joy. He performed the Vaiśvadeva offering, as well as the fierce and the Vaiṣṇava rites, and began auspicious ceremonies to pacify the dwelling. After properly reciting the prayers and bathing in the river according to rule, Rāma performed the highest offering to remove any sin. He established altars, shrines, and sanctuaries appropriate to 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 Raghavas—Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—together with Sītā, satisfied the beings. Then, marked by auspicious signs, they entered the beautiful shelter. That delightful leaf-thatched hut, well-built and sheltered from the wind, became their dwelling. Together they entered it, as if the hosts of gods were entering their 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, they rejoiced happily, their senses conquered. Having reached that charming, picturesque mountain and the sacred river Mālyavatī, frequented by deer and birds, Rāma rejoiced. His heart was uplifted, and he let go of the sorrow caused by his exile from the city. Now, the fifty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa’s Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa begins. After much heartfelt conversation, overwhelmed with deep sorrow, Guha, along with Sumantra, returned to his own home when Rāma had reached the southern bank. The journey to Bharadvāja, their stay at Prayāga, and their ascent of the mountain were all observed by those present. Then Sumantra, having been permitted, yoked the excellent horses and, his heart greatly troubled, set out for the city of Ayodhyā. As he passed swiftly along the way, he beheld fragrant forests, rivers, and lakes, as well as villages and cities. On the evening of the third day, the charioteer reached Ayodhyā and saw it bereft of joy. Seeing the city silent and deserted, Sumantra, deeply distressed and struck by a surge of sorrow, began to reflect: “Has this city, with its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, been consumed by the fire of grief for Rāma?” Filled with anxious thoughts, the charioteer, with his swift-footed horses, hurriedly entered the city gate. As Sumantra approached, hundreds and thousands of men rushed toward him, asking, “Where is Rāma?” To them he said, “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 had crossed the river, their faces filled with tears, they sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out, “Ah, Rāma!” He heard their words as they stood in groups: “Truly, we are ruined, for we do not see Rāghava here. 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 went 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 and passed 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. With wide, clear eyes overflowing with tears, the women 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. He thought to himself, “Having departed with Rāma and now returned without him, what indeed will I say to Kausalyā as she grieves? Truly, living is difficult, not easy at all, especially when Kausalyā remains alive after her son has departed.” Observing the words of the king’s wives, which were truthful in form, Sumantra entered the house suddenly, as if ablaze with grief.