Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana entered together into their delightful leaf-thatched hut, a dwelling well-built and sheltered from the wind. The scene was reminiscent of the hosts of gods entering their noble assembly hall, so pleasing and secure was their forest abode. In that excellent forest, alive with the sounds of wild beasts, teeming with many kinds of deer and birds, and adorned with trees blossoming with clusters of varied flowers, the three rejoiced, their hearts content and their senses brought under control. Having arrived at that charming and picturesque mountain, near the sacred river Mālyavatī—where deer and birds wandered freely—Rama felt his heart lift with joy. The beauty and sanctity of the place eased his sorrow, and for a time, he let go of the grief caused by his exile from the city. After a time, Guha, having spent long hours in conversation and overwhelmed with deep sorrow, took his leave of Rama when the prince had reached the southern bank, and returned to his own home with Sumantra. The journey of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana to the sage Bharadvāja, their stay at Prayāga, and their ascent of the mountain were all observed by those present in that region. Sumantra, having been permitted by Rama, yoked the excellent horses to his chariot. Though his heart was greatly troubled, he set out for the city of Ayodhyā. As he journeyed swiftly, Sumantra beheld fragrant forests, rivers, lakes, and passed through villages and cities along the way. On the evening of the third day, the charioteer finally reached Ayodhyā. But the city he saw was bereft of joy, silent and deserted. Deeply distressed and struck by a wave of sorrow, Sumantra reflected: Had this city, with its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, been consumed by the fire of grief for Rama? Filled with anxious thoughts, Sumantra urged his swift-footed horses through the city gate. As he approached, hundreds and thousands of men rushed toward him, anxiously asking, “Where is Rama?” To them, 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 and his companions had crossed the river, their faces filled with tears. They sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out, “Ah, Rama!” Sumantra heard their words as they stood in groups, lamenting, “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?” For the city had been governed by Rama like a loving father. He heard the lamentation of women, scorched by grief for Rama, coming 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 Dasaratha resided. Dismounting quickly from his chariot, he entered the royal palace, passing through seven courtyards crowded with people. From the 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 one another, their grief so deep that their words were indistinct. From the palaces of Dasaratha’s wives, Sumantra heard their soft murmuring, tormented by sorrow for Rama. Sumantra’s heart was heavy: having departed with Rama and now returned without him, what could he possibly say to Kausalya as she grieved? He thought, “Living is indeed difficult, not easy at all, especially when Kausalya remains alive after her son has departed.” Observing the words of the king's wives, which were truthful in form, he entered the house suddenly, as if ablaze with grief. Entering the eighth chamber, Sumantra saw the king—miserable and agitated, faded by grief for his son, pale within the house. Approaching the seated lord of men and offering his respects, Sumantra conveyed Rama’s message exactly as it had been spoken. Hearing this, the king remained silent, his mind disturbed; overwhelmed by grief for Rama, he fainted and collapsed to the ground. As the lord of the earth lay unconscious, the inner palace was thrown into turmoil. The women raised their arms and cried out as the king fell. Together with Sumitra, Kausalya lifted her fallen husband and spoke to him: “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 Raghava; arise, may your virtue remain, for grief offers no assistance. O lord, out of fear of whom do you not ask the charioteer about Rama? Kaikeyi is not present here, so speak freely.” Having spoken thus to the great king, Kausalya, overwhelmed by sorrow, quickly fell to the ground herself, her speech choked with tears. Seeing Kausalya lamenting and fallen to the earth, and observing their husband, all the women cried out loudly. The sound of their grief rose from the inner palace, and elders, young men, and all the women throughout the city wept everywhere; once again, Ayodhyā was in turmoil. When the king had recovered and returned to his senses from confusion, he summoned the charioteer, eager to learn about Rama’s situation.