As the events unfolded in Ayodhyā, a deep sense of injustice pervaded the hearts of those who loved Rāma. If Rāma had been exiled due to greed or merely for the sake of granting boons, it was clear that a wrongful act had been committed. This decision, made only to satisfy the will of the ruler, lacked all justification, especially when it came to abandoning Rāma. The exile of Raghava, undertaken without proper consideration and contrary to reason, would surely incite public outcry. For myself, O great king, I no longer recognized any fatherhood; for Raghava was my brother, lord, kinsman, and father all at once. How could the world remain attached to you after you had abandoned one beloved by all and devoted to the welfare of everyone? By exiling Rāma, who delighted all people and was righteous, how could you continue to rule, having opposed the entire world? Meanwhile, Janaki—Sītā—stood steadfast in her vows, sighing deeply, motionless as if her mind had been struck down by sorrow. The illustrious princess, who had never before known such misfortune, wept from her grief and did not utter a word to me. Her face, parched by sorrow, was turned toward her husband, and tears fell as she watched me depart. In the same way, Rāma, his face wet with tears and hands joined in reverence, stood protected by Lakṣmaṇa’s arm. Sītā, steadfast and weeping, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and on me. Now, listen to the fifty-ninth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When my horses turned back, they refused to proceed along the path, shedding hot tears as Rāma set out for the forest. After making reverence to both princes, I mounted the chariot, bearing my sorrow within me. I remained there with Guha for many days, hoping that perhaps Rāma would call for me again. O great king, even the trees in your realm, weighed down by sorrow for me, have withered, though they bear flowers, shoots, and buds. The rivers have warm waters, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves have withered leaves. Creatures do not move about, nor do wild beasts roam; that forest, overcome by grief for Rāma, has become silent. Lotuses have closed their petals, their waters are turbid, the ponds are scorched, and the lilies, along with their fish and birds, have disappeared. The water-borne flowers and garlands, and those growing on land, do not shine today; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as before. The gardens are empty, the birds have vanished, and, O best of men, I do not see the delightful parks as before. No one welcomes me as I enter Ayodhyā; the people, deprived of seeing Rāma, sigh again and again. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rāma, all the people along the royal road are tearful with grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by the sight of Rāma’s absence, cry out in lamentation. With wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, the women look at each other, clearly overwhelmed with pain. In my distress, I do not notice any difference between enemies, friends, or those indifferent. The people are joyless; the elephants and horses are dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. O great king, Ayodhyā, stricken by Rāma’s exile, appears to me like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly joyless. Hearing the charioteer’s words, the king, his voice choked with tears and filled with deep sorrow, spoke to him: “This was not approved by me together with the wise elders skilled in counsel, but was imposed by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on evil. Neither with friends, nor with ministers, nor with citizens did I deliberate; out of confusion and because of a woman, I made this decision suddenly. Surely, by fate or by some great calamity, this disaster has come upon this family, O charioteer, leading to its ruin. Charioteer, if I have ever done any good for you, quickly take me to Rāma; my life is hurrying me on. Whatever command I have, let it turn Rāghava back; I cannot live even for a moment without Rāma. Or if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me on the chariot and swiftly show me to Rāma. Where is that elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with curved tusks and great bow? If I live, may I see him together with Sītā. If I do not see Rāma, with blood-red eyes, mighty arms, and gem-studded earrings, I will go to the abode of Yama. What could be more painful than this: that I, descended from Ikṣvāku, have come to this state and do not see Rāghava here? Alas, Rāma! Rāma’s younger brother! Alas, ascetic Vaidehī! You do not know that I am dying, abandoned by sorrow.” Overwhelmed by intense grief, the king, his mind utterly afflicted, plunged into the ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross, and spoke: “The ocean of sorrow, with Rāma’s exile as its great depth, Sītā’s separation as its far shore, sighs as its mighty waves, and tears as its foaming, turbid waters.