As Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana journeyed on—making their way first to the hermitage of Bharadvāja, then pausing at holy Prayāga, and finally ascending the mountain—their progress was watched with heavy hearts by those who had accompanied them thus far. At last, Sumantra, the faithful charioteer, having been granted leave, prepared his splendid horses for the return journey. His heart was heavy with sorrow as he turned the chariot’s reins toward Ayodhyā, the city he loved. The countryside flashed by: fragrant forests, flowing rivers, tranquil lakes, villages bustling with life, and distant cities—all passed swiftly beneath the wheels of his chariot. By the evening of the third day, Sumantra reached the gates of Ayodhyā. But the city he beheld was not the one he had left. Joy had vanished; a heavy silence hung over the streets. Sumantra’s heart ached as he looked about and wondered, “Has this city, with its elephants and horses, its people and rulers, been consumed by the fire of grief for Rama?” Troubled by these thoughts, he urged his swift horses onward and entered the city. As he approached, crowds surged toward him—hundreds, thousands of men—each desperate for news. “Where is Rama?” they cried. Sumantra replied, his voice steady despite his sorrow, “After I took leave of Raghava at the Ganga, that righteous and great-souled one permitted me to return alone.” When the people heard that Rama had crossed the river and gone, their faces streamed with tears. “Alas! Fie!” they cried. “Ah, Rama!” He listened as they gathered in small groups, their voices heavy with despair. “Truly, we are ruined, for Raghava is no longer among us. 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 Rama had governed Ayodhyā like a loving father. As Sumantra made his way through the city, he heard the lamentations of women—voices carried on the wind from the inner markets, scorched by grief for Rama. Covering his face in sorrow, Sumantra traveled the royal road to the palace of King Dasaratha. He quickly dismounted and entered the palace, passing through seven courtyards crowded with anxious people. From the mansions, towers, and palaces above, the women looked down, their faces drawn and emaciated by longing for Rama. Their wide, clear eyes overflowed with tears as they gazed at one another, their grief so deep that their words were barely audible. From the chambers of Dasaratha’s wives, Sumantra heard their soft, grief-stricken murmurs. He wondered, “Having departed with Rama and now returned alone, what can I possibly say to Kausalya as she mourns? Truly, living is difficult—how does Kausalya endure, her son exiled?” With these thoughts, and hearing the truthful words of the king’s wives, Sumantra entered the innermost chamber, his heart ablaze with sorrow. There he saw King Dasaratha, a shadow of his former self, faded and agitated by grief for his son, pale and trembling within his house. Approaching the king, Sumantra bowed respectfully and conveyed Rama’s message exactly as it had been spoken. Upon hearing this, the king fell silent, his mind overcome with anguish. Overwhelmed by his sorrow for Rama, Dasaratha fainted and collapsed to the ground. At the sight of the fallen king, the palace was thrown into turmoil. The women raised their arms and cried out in despair. Together with Sumitra, Kausalya rushed to lift her stricken husband, and she spoke through her tears: “Why do you not speak to this messenger, who has come from the forest, having accomplished a most difficult task? Having committed this injustice today, you are ashamed, O Raghava. Arise—let your virtue remain, for grief offers no help. O lord, out of fear of whom do you not ask the charioteer about Rama? Kaikeyi is not here—speak freely.” But as she spoke, Kausalya’s sorrow overcame her, and she too collapsed to the floor, her words choked by tears. Seeing Kausalya lamenting on the ground, and their husband lying senseless, all the women of the palace wailed loudly in grief. The sound rose through the palace, and soon elders, young men, and women throughout the city wept openly. Once again, Ayodhyā was plunged into turmoil. When the king at last recovered consciousness, his mind still reeling with confusion, he summoned Sumantra to learn of Rama’s condition. Sumantra, hands joined in reverence, approached the grief-stricken king. He saw before him the aged monarch, weighed down by sorrow, sighing and restless—like an elephant wounded and tormented by a new affliction. Dasaratha, seeing Sumantra approach, noted his dust-covered limbs, his tear-streaked face, and the deep dejection in his bearing. With utmost anguish, the king asked, “Where will Rama dwell, now that he has taken shelter at the root of a tree? That exceedingly fortunate Raghava—what will he eat, charioteer? Unaccustomed to hardship, used to a comfortable bed, how does my son, Sumanta, sleep on the bare ground, like one with no support?” Thus, the sorrow of Rama’s exile echoed through the palace and the city, as Sumantra prepared to recount all that had befallen the beloved prince.