Lakshmana, the powerful son of Sumitra, skillfully brought down a black antelope—an animal pure and fit for sacred rites. He cast it into the blazing fire, tending it carefully until it was thoroughly cooked, roasted through, and free of all blood. When at last the meat was ready, Lakshmana, that tiger among men, turned to Rama and said, “O noble one, the black antelope is fully prepared, cooked just as it should be. You are skilled in the rites—like a god among men, offer the sacrifice.” Rama, steadfast in self-control and virtue, learned in the sacred chants, then bathed and recited the concluding mantras of the sacrifice, gathering their essence in summary. With pure heart and immeasurable brilliance, he worshipped all the hosts of gods, fulfilling every ritual. His mind filled with joy, Rama entered the shelter. He performed the Vaiśvadeva offering, as well as the fierce and Vaiṣṇava rites, and began auspicious ceremonies to sanctify and pacify their new dwelling. Following proper prayers and another ritual bath in the river, Rama performed the highest oblation to remove any lingering sin. He established altars, shrines, and sanctuaries suited to their hermitage, preparing the sacred space with forest garlands, fruits, roots, ripe meats, water for libations, sacred darbha grass, and kindling, just as the Vedas prescribe. Together, the two brothers—Rama and Lakshmana—along with Sita, satisfied the beings of the forest with these offerings. Marked by auspicious signs, they entered their beautiful shelter. The hut was delightful, thatched with leaves, well-built, and sheltered from the wind. The three entered together for their dwelling, as if the hosts of gods were entering their own noble assembly hall. In that excellent forest, alive with the calls of wild beasts, filled with many kinds of deer and birds, and adorned with trees heavy with clusters of flowers, they rejoiced together, their senses firmly mastered. Having reached that charming, picturesque mountain and the sacred river Mālyavatī—a place frequented by deer and birds—Rama’s heart soared. Surrounded by such beauty, he let go of the sorrow that had followed him from his exile, finding joy once again in the peace of the forest. Now begins the next chapter of this glorious tale. After a long and sorrowful conversation with Sumantra, Guha returned to his own home, for Rama had already crossed to the southern bank. The journey to Bharadvāja, their stay at Prayāga, and their ascent of the mountain were all observed by those present. Sumantra, having received permission, yoked the excellent horses to his chariot. Though his heart was heavy with grief, he set out for the city of Ayodhyā. As he traveled swiftly, he passed fragrant forests, rivers, lakes, villages, and cities. On the evening of the third day, Sumantra finally reached Ayodhyā, only to find it bereft of joy. The city was silent and deserted. Overcome by sorrow, Sumantra wondered if Ayodhyā, with its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, had been consumed by the fire of grief for Rama. Troubled by such anxious thoughts, he urged his swift-footed horses onward and entered the city gate. As Sumantra approached, hundreds and thousands of people rushed toward him, anxiously asking, “Where is Rama?” He 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. They sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out, “Ah, Rama!” He heard their lament as they gathered in groups: “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 is dear, what brings happiness?—thus was the city governed by Rama, like a father to his children.” As Sumantra continued, he heard the wailing of women, scorched by grief for Rama, coming from the inner markets along the wind-swept streets. Covering his face in sorrow, Sumantra made his way through the heart of the royal road to the very house where King Dasaratha resided. Quickly dismounting from his chariot, he entered the royal palace, passing through seven courtyards crowded with people. From the mansions, towers, and palaces above, women—gathered and crying out in anguish—looked down, their bodies thin with longing for Rama. With wide, clear eyes overflowing with tears, they gazed at one another, 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 wondered to himself, “Having departed with Rama and now returned without him, what indeed will I say to Kausalya as she grieves? Living is indeed difficult, not easy at all, especially when Kausalya remains alive after her son has departed.” Listening to the truthful words of the king’s wives, Sumantra entered the house, as if ablaze with grief. Passing into the eighth chamber, he saw the king—miserable, agitated, his body faded and pale from grief for his son. Approaching the seated lord of men, Sumantra offered his respects and conveyed Rama’s message exactly as it had been spoken. Hearing these words, the king remained silent, his mind disturbed and overwhelmed by grief for Rama. At last, he fainted, collapsing to the ground, overcome by sorrow.