Swiftly, Sumantra journeyed back toward Ayodhya, his chariot racing across fragrant forests, past sparkling rivers and tranquil lakes, through villages and bustling cities. On the evening of the third day, he finally approached the gates of Ayodhya. But the city he beheld was transformed: once vibrant and joyous, it now seemed shrouded in silence and sorrow, utterly bereft of happiness. As Sumantra entered, he was struck by the stillness and emptiness that hung over the city. His heart grew heavy with grief, and he wondered to himself, “Has this great city, filled with elephants, horses, people, and rulers, been consumed by the fire of grief for Rama?” With these anxious thoughts swirling in his mind, he urged his swift-footed horses onward and hurried through the city gates. No sooner had he entered than crowds of men surged toward him, their faces etched with worry, their voices urgent as they cried, “Where is Rama?” Sumantra replied, “After taking leave of Raghava at the banks of the Ganga, I was permitted to return by that righteous, great-souled one.” Hearing that Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana had crossed the river and gone into exile, the people’s eyes filled with tears. They sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out in anguish, “Ah, Rama!” Sumantra heard their mournful words 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 the people? What brings happiness? Rama, like a father, always cared for the city and its welfare.” As he passed through the inner markets, Sumantra heard the lamentations of women, their voices carried on the wind, their hearts scorched by grief for Rama. Covering his face in sorrow, Sumantra made his way through the royal road to the very house where King Dasaratha resided. Dismounting swiftly from his chariot, he entered the palace, moving through seven crowded courtyards. From the mansions, towers, and palaces above, women—emaciated by longing for Rama—looked down, their eyes wide and brimming with tears. Their grief was so deep that their voices were barely audible as they spoke to one another. From the palaces of Dasaratha’s women, Sumantra heard their soft, tormented murmuring, their hearts aching for Rama. Now, Sumantra’s mind was troubled: he had departed with Rama and returned without him. What could he possibly say to Kausalya, who grieved so deeply for her son? He thought, “Truly, living is difficult—especially for Kausalya, who endures even after her beloved son has left.” Observing the truthful words of the king’s wives, Sumantra entered the house, his heart ablaze with grief. In the eighth chamber, he found King Dasaratha, miserable and agitated, his body faded and pale from sorrow for his son. Approaching the king, Sumantra bowed low and delivered Rama’s message exactly as it had been spoken. Hearing Sumantra’s words, the king fell silent, his mind disturbed. Overwhelmed by grief for Rama, he fainted and collapsed to the ground. As the lord of the earth lay unconscious, a cry of anguish rose from the inner palace; the women raised their arms and wept as the king fell. Kausalya, together with Sumitra, lifted their fallen husband. In her sorrow, Kausalya spoke: “Why do you not speak to this messenger, who has come from the forest after accomplishing such a difficult task? Having committed this injustice today, you feel ashamed, O Raghava; arise, may 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.” Having spoken thus, Kausalya, overwhelmed with sorrow, fell to the ground, her voice choked with tears. Seeing her lamenting and fallen, and witnessing the king’s condition, all the women cried out loudly. Their grief echoed through the palace, and soon elders, young men, and all the women throughout Ayodhya wept openly. Once again, the city was plunged into turmoil. Let the fifty-eighth chapter now be heard. When King Dasaratha finally regained his senses after his confusion, he summoned Sumantra to learn of Rama’s situation. Sumantra, hands joined in reverence, approached the great king, who was still grieving for Rama, his heart heavy with sorrow and distress. He saw the aged king, deeply afflicted—like an elephant seized by a new planet—sighing and reflecting, restless as a wounded beast. The king, seeing Sumantra approach, his limbs covered in dust, his face full of tears and dejection, spoke to him with utmost anguish: “Where will the righteous one dwell, having taken shelter at the root of a tree? That exceedingly fortunate Raghava, charioteer, what will he eat? Unaccustomed to suffering, used to a comfortable bed, how does my son, Sumanta, sleep on the ground like one without support? He whom foot soldiers, chariots, and elephants used to follow as he went—how will Rama live, having taken refuge in a lonely forest? In a forest frequented by beasts and deer, inhabited by black serpents, how have the two princes, together with the daughter of Videha, arrived there?” Thus, the palace and the city of Ayodhya were overwhelmed with sorrow for Rama, their beloved prince, whose absence cast a shadow over every heart.