As Sumantra, the royal charioteer, approached the city, his heart was heavy with anxious thoughts. He wondered if Ayodhya itself—its elephants, horses, people, and rulers—had been consumed by the fire of grief for Rama. Urged on by these worries and his swift-footed horses, Sumantra hurried through the city gates. No sooner had he entered than crowds of men surged toward him, their faces tense with hope and sorrow. They called out, “Where is Rama?” Sumantra answered honestly, “After taking leave of Raghava at the banks of the Ganga, I was permitted to return by that righteous, great-souled one.” When the people realized that Rama and his companions had crossed the river and would not return, tears filled their eyes. They sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out in anguish, “Ah, Rama!” Standing in groups throughout the city, Sumantra heard their despair: “We are truly ruined, for Raghava is no longer among us. In gifts, sacrifices, weddings, and great assemblies, never again shall we see righteous Rama present. What is beneficial for the people? What brings happiness and is dear to us? Rama governed the city like a father, always seeking our welfare.” As Sumantra made his way further, he heard the lamentation of women, their voices drifting from the inner markets along the wind-swept streets, each one scorched by grief for Rama. Covering his face, Sumantra proceeded along the royal road, heading straight to King Dasaratha’s residence. He quickly dismounted from his chariot and entered the palace, passing through seven courtyards crowded with anxious people. From the mansions, towers, and palaces above, women—gathered together and emaciated by longing for Rama—cried out in anguish as they looked down. Their wide, clear eyes overflowed with tears as they gazed at one another, their grief so deep that their words were barely distinguishable. Sumantra could hear the soft, sorrowful murmuring from the palaces of Dasaratha’s women, all tormented by their longing for Rama. He wondered with dread what he could possibly say to Kausalya, Rama’s mother, who was surely overwhelmed by grief, now that he had returned without her beloved son. “Indeed,” he thought, “living is difficult—how does Kausalya bear life after her son’s departure?” Hearing the truthful words of the king’s wives, Sumantra entered the inner chambers, his heart burning with sorrow. In the eighth chamber, he found King Dasaratha himself, miserable and agitated, faded by grief for his son, pale and listless within his house. Sumantra approached the seated king, paid his respects, and delivered Rama’s message exactly as it had been spoken. But as the words reached Dasaratha’s ears, the king was silent, his mind greatly 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 in distress as the king fell. Together with Sumitra, Kausalya hurried to lift her fallen husband and spoke to him with trembling voice: “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, Kausalya, overwhelmed by sorrow, collapsed to the ground, her speech choked with tears. Seeing Kausalya fallen and lamenting, and their husband stricken, all the women in the palace cried out in anguish. The sound of their grief rose throughout the inner palace, and soon the elders, the young men, and all the women of the city were weeping. Once again, Ayodhya was plunged into turmoil. When the king finally recovered his senses, he summoned Sumantra, desperate to hear news of his beloved son. Sumantra, hands joined in reverence, approached the aged king, who was like an elephant wounded and restless, sighing and reflecting in sorrow. King Dasaratha, seeing Sumantra’s limbs covered in dust and his face full of tears, spoke with utmost anguish: “Where will the righteous one dwell, having taken shelter at the root of a tree? That exceedingly fortunate Raghava—what will he eat? Unaccustomed to suffering and to sleeping on the bare ground, how does my son, Sumanta, rest now, like one who has no support? He whom foot soldiers, chariots, and elephants used to follow—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? With gentle, ascetic Sita, how did the royal sons descend from the chariot and proceed on foot? You are truly accomplished, Sumantra, for you have seen my two sons entering the depths of the forest, like the Ashvins entering Mandara. Tell me, what words did Rama speak? What did Lakshmana say? And what did Maithili utter when you all reached the forest?” Thus, the palace of Ayodhya was filled with sorrow and longing, as the king and his people yearned for news of their beloved Rama.