In Ayodhyā, a deep sorrow had settled over the people. They lamented among themselves, “In our gifts, sacrifices, weddings, and great gatherings, never again shall we see righteous Rāma among us.” The city remembered how Rāma had governed as a loving father, always considering what was beneficial, what was dear, and what brought happiness to his people. Now, his absence left a void that could not be filled. As Sumantra made his way through the city, he heard the wailing of women, their grief for Rāma carried on the wind from the inner markets. Their cries echoed the pain that gripped every heart. Covering his face in anguish, Sumantra traveled along the central royal road, making his way to the very house where King Daśaratha resided. Arriving swiftly, he dismounted his chariot and entered the royal palace, passing through seven courtyards crowded with anxious people. From the mansions, towers, and palaces above, women peered down, their bodies emaciated with longing for Rāma. Tears streamed from their wide, clear eyes as they looked at one another, their grief so overwhelming that their words became indistinct murmurs. From the chambers of Daśaratha’s wives, Sumantra heard the soft, agonized murmuring of women tormented by their longing for Rāma. The thought weighed heavily on him: having departed with Rāma and now returned alone, what could he possibly say to Kausalyā as she grieved? He reflected, “To live is truly difficult, especially for Kausalyā, who survives even after her son’s departure.” Hearing the truthful words of the king’s wives, Sumantra, his heart burning with sorrow, entered the house with sudden urgency. He reached the eighth chamber and there saw King Daśaratha, miserable and agitated, his body faded and pale with grief for his son. Sumantra approached the lord of men, bowed in respect, and delivered Rāma’s message exactly as it had been spoken. At these words, the king sat in silence, his mind disturbed. Overwhelmed by sorrow for Rāma, Daśaratha fainted and collapsed to the ground. As their lord lay unconscious, a cry of anguish rose from the inner palace. The women, raising their arms in despair, called out as the king fell. Together with Sumitrā, Kausalyā hurried to lift her fallen husband and spoke to him, her voice trembling, “Why do you not speak to this messenger, who has come from the forest, having accomplished such a difficult task? Having committed this injustice today, you are ashamed, O Rāghava. Arise, let your virtue remain—for grief brings no help. O lord, out of fear of whom do you not ask the charioteer about Rāma? Kaikeyī is not here; speak freely.” Having spoken thus, Kausalyā, overwhelmed by sorrow, fell to the ground herself, her words choked with tears. Seeing Kausalyā lamenting on the earth and their husband stricken, all the women of the palace cried aloud. The sound of their grief rose through the palace, and hearing it, elders, young men, and women throughout the city began to weep once more. Ayodhyā was plunged again into turmoil. Let the next chapter be heard. When the king finally recovered from his confusion and regained his senses, he summoned Sumantra, eager to learn about Rāma’s situation. Sumantra, his hands joined in reverence, approached the great king, who was still grieving for his son, his own heart heavy with sorrow. Daśaratha, aged and deeply afflicted, seemed like a wounded elephant, restless and sighing, his mind troubled. Seeing Sumantra approach, his limbs covered in dust, his face streaked with tears and dejection, the king spoke with great anguish: “Where will the righteous one dwell now, having taken shelter at the root of a tree? That exceedingly fortunate Rāghava—what will he eat, charioteer? Accustomed to comfort, how will my son, unaccustomed to hardship, sleep on the bare ground? He, whom soldiers, chariots, and elephants used to follow—how will Rāma live now, alone in the forest? In a place frequented by beasts and serpents, how have the two princes and the daughter of Videha arrived there? With gentle, ascetic Sītā, how did my royal sons descend from the chariot and proceed on foot?” He continued, “You are truly fortunate, charioteer, for you have seen my two sons entering the depths of the forest, like the Aśvins entering Mandara. What words did Rāma speak? What did Lakṣmaṇa say? What did Maithilī utter, Sumantra, upon reaching the forest? Tell me of Rāma’s sitting, lying, and eating; by this, I shall live, just as Yayāti lived among the virtuous.” Thus urged by the king, Sumantra composed himself and began to speak, tears flowing as he recalled those moments. He reported to the king, “The great Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness, bowed his head and made a gesture of reverence. He said, ‘Charioteer, convey my words to my father, who knows himself and whose head is worthy of reverence. Let the feet of the great-souled one be honored. Let the entire inner palace be addressed in my name; wish health to all without distinction, and offer proper salutations. Greet my mother Kausalyā and advise vigilance; say also these words...’” Thus, Sumantra began to recount Rāma’s words and deeds, as the hearts of the royal household hung upon every detail, sustained by the memory of their beloved Rāma.