Rāghava, ever mindful of righteousness, established altars, shrines, and sanctuaries befitting the holy hermitage. With offerings of forest garlands, fruits, roots, ripe meats as prescribed, water for libations, sacred darbha grass, and kindling—all as taught in the Vedas—he and Lakshmana, together with Sita, honored and satisfied the beings of the forest. Then, marked by auspicious signs, they entered the beautiful shelter they had prepared. That delightful leaf-thatched hut, well-built and protected from the wind, welcomed them all as their dwelling, just as the hosts of gods might enter their noble assembly hall. In that excellent forest, filled with the sounds of wild beasts, teeming with many kinds of deer and birds, and adorned with trees bearing clusters of various flowers, the three rejoiced in happiness, their senses brought under control. Having reached that charming and picturesque mountain, and the sacred river Mālyavatī—frequented by deer and birds—Rāma felt his heart uplifted. The beauty and sanctity of the place eased the sorrow that exile from his beloved city had caused him. Now begins the fifty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. After a long and sorrowful conversation with Sumantra, Guha returned to his own home when Rāma 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 observed by those present. Having received permission, Sumantra yoked the excellent horses to his chariot. His heart heavy with grief, he set out for Ayodhyā. As he sped along, he passed through fragrant forests, across rivers and lakes, and by villages and cities. On the evening of the third day, Sumantra reached Ayodhyā. But the city was bereft of joy. It was silent and deserted, and Sumantra, deeply distressed and struck by a surge of sorrow, began to ponder: “Has this city, with all its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, been consumed by the fire of grief for Rāma?” Troubled by such anxious thoughts, he hurried his swift-footed horses through the city gate. As he approached, hundreds and thousands of men rushed toward him, asking anxiously, “Where is Rāma?” To them Sumantra replied, “After taking leave of Rāghava at the Ganga, I was permitted to return by that righteous, great-souled one.” Learning that Rāma had crossed the river, the people, their faces wet with tears, sighed deeply, crying out, “Alas! Fie!” and “Ah, Rāma!” Sumantra heard their words as they stood in groups, lamenting, “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.” He heard the lamentation of women, scorched by grief for Rāma, echoing from the inner markets along the wind-swept paths. Covering his face, Sumantra 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—looked down, emaciated by longing for Rāma. With wide, clear eyes overflowing with tears, they gazed 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 sorrow for Rāma. He wondered, “Having departed with Rāma and now returned without him, what indeed will I say to Kausalya as she grieves? Truly, living is difficult—not easy at all—when Kausalya remains alive after her son has departed.” Observing the heartfelt words of the king’s wives, Sumantra entered the house suddenly, as if ablaze with grief. Entering the eighth chamber, he saw the king, miserable and agitated, faded by grief for his son, pale within the house. Approaching the seated lord of men, Sumantra offered his respects and conveyed Rāma’s message exactly as it had been spoken. Hearing this, the king remained silent, his mind disturbed. Overwhelmed by grief for Rāma, he fainted and collapsed to the ground. As the lord of the earth lay unconscious, the inner palace was struck with anguish; raising their arms, the women cried out as the king fell. Together with Sumitrā, Kausalyā lifted her fallen husband and spoke these words: “Why do you not speak to this messenger, who has come from the forest-dwelling, having accomplished a difficult task? Having committed this injustice today, you feel ashamed, O Rāghava; arise, may your virtue remain, for grief offers no assistance. O lord, out of fear of whom do you not ask the charioteer about Rāma? Kaikeyī is not present here, so speak freely.” Having spoken thus to the great king, Kausalyā, overwhelmed by sorrow, quickly fell to the ground, her speech choked with tears. Seeing Kausalyā lamenting and fallen to the earth, and observing their husband, all the women cried out loudly, their grief echoing through the palace.