With a heavy heart, Sumantra, having been given leave, yoked the noble horses to his chariot and set out for Ayodhyā, his mind troubled with sorrow. As the chariot sped along, he passed through fragrant forests, across rivers and lakes, and by villages and bustling cities. On the evening of the third day, Sumantra finally reached the city of Ayodhyā, but found it shrouded in gloom, devoid of its usual joy. The silence and emptiness of the city struck Sumantra deeply, and waves of grief washed over him. He wondered whether Ayodhyā, with its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, had been consumed by the fire of sorrow for Rāma. Overwhelmed by these anxious thoughts, he urged his swift horses onward and hastened through the city gate. As Sumantra entered, crowds of men rushed toward him, their faces anxious, calling out, “Where is Rāma?” To their desperate inquiries, Sumantra replied, “After taking leave of Rāghava at the banks of the Gaṅgā, I was permitted to return by that righteous, great-souled one.” Hearing that Rāma and his companions had crossed the river and gone on, the people’s faces filled with tears. They sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out, “Ah, Rāma!” He overheard their lamentations as they gathered in groups, voices heavy with despair: “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?—for the city was governed by Rāma as a father cares for his children.” As Sumantra made his way through the city, he heard the cries of women, scorched by grief for Rāma, echoing from the inner markets and along the wind-swept streets. Covering his face in sorrow, Sumantra traveled straight down the royal road to the palace of King Daśaratha. Dismounting quickly from his chariot, he entered the royal palace and passed through seven crowded courtyards. From the mansions, towers, and palaces, women—gathered together and emaciated by longing for Rāma—looked down, weeping in anguish. With wide, tear-filled eyes, they gazed at one another, their grief so deep that their words were barely audible. From the palaces of Daśaratha’s wives, Sumantra heard their soft, tormented murmurs, filled with longing for Rāma. As he approached, Sumantra pondered anxiously: having departed with Rāma and now returned without him, what could he possibly say to Kausalyā in her grief? It seemed to him that living was indeed difficult, especially for Kausalyā, who still endured despite the departure of her beloved son. Hearing the truthful words of the king’s wives, Sumantra entered the house, his heart ablaze with grief. In the eighth chamber, he saw King Daśaratha, miserable and agitated, his form faded by sorrow for his son. Approaching the seated king, Sumantra offered his respects and faithfully conveyed Rāma’s message, exactly as it had been spoken. Upon hearing Sumantra’s words, 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, cries arose throughout the inner palace, and the women raised their arms in anguish as the king fell. Kausalyā and Sumitrā quickly lifted their fallen husband, and Kausalyā spoke: “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, Kausalyā, overwhelmed by sorrow, fell to the ground herself, her speech choked with tears. Seeing Kausalyā collapsed and lamenting, and their husband in such a state, all the women cried out loudly. The sound of their wailing rose from the inner palace, and soon elders, young men, and all the women throughout the city wept openly; thus, Ayodhyā was once more in turmoil. When the king finally regained consciousness and recovered from his confusion, he summoned Sumantra, eager to learn of Rāma’s situation. Sumantra, hands joined in reverence, approached the sorrow-stricken king. He saw Daśaratha, aged and deeply afflicted, sighing and restless like a wounded elephant, his mind tormented with grief. The king, beholding Sumantra—his limbs covered in dust, his face full of tears and dejection—spoke with utmost anguish: “Where will the righteous one dwell, having taken shelter at the root of a tree? That exceedingly fortunate Rāghava, charioteer, what will he eat? Unaccustomed to suffering, used to a comfortable bed, how does the king’s son, Sumantra, sleep on the ground like one without support? He whom foot soldiers, chariots, and elephants used to follow as he went—how will Rāma live, having taken refuge in a lonely forest?