After the beloved and virtuous Rāma, who was devoted to the welfare of all, had been sent away, a sense of abandonment gripped the world. People questioned how anyone could remain attached to the king after such an act. By exiling Rāma, who brought joy to all and upheld righteousness, the king had turned against the entire realm—how could he possibly continue to rule, having alienated the hearts of his people? In the midst of this sorrow, Janaki—Sītā—stood steadfast and silent, her deep sighs revealing the anguish within. She was unwavering in her vows, but her mind seemed struck down by grief. The illustrious princess, who had never before faced such misfortune, wept quietly, unable to utter a single word to those around her. Her face, parched by sorrow, was turned toward her husband; as she watched the charioteer depart, tears fell suddenly from her eyes. Rāma, too, stood with his face wet from tears, hands joined in reverence, protected by Lakṣmaṇa’s arm. Sītā, weeping and resolute, kept her gaze fixed on the royal chariot and the departing charioteer, her heart heavy with grief. Listen now 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 began his journey into the forest. After offering reverence to both princes, I mounted the chariot and set out, carrying the sorrow of separation within me. I remained for many days with Guha, 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 flow with warm waters, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves display withered leaves. Creatures do not stir, wild beasts do not roam; the forest, overcome by grief for Rāma, has fallen silent. Lotuses have closed their petals, their waters are turbid, the ponds are scorched, and lilies, along with their fish and birds, have vanished. The flowers and garlands—whether born in water or on land—do not shine today; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as they once were. Gardens stand empty, birds have disappeared, 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 those 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, they look at each other, overwhelmed with pain. In my distress, I notice no difference between enemies, friends, or those indifferent—the city is joyless. Elephants and horses are dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. Ayodhyā, stricken by Rāma’s exile, appears to me like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly joyless. Hearing these words from his charioteer, the king, his voice choked with tears and filled with deep sorrow, addressed him. “This was not approved by me or by the wise elders skilled in counsel; it 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 an ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross. He spoke of this ocean: its great depth was Rāma’s exile, its far shore Sītā’s separation, its mighty waves were sighs, and its foaming, turbid waters were tears. Its fish were the flailing of arms, its great roar was loud lamentation, its floating weeds were disheveled hair, and its submarine fire was Kaikeyī. Fed by the flood of his tears, with the words of the hunchback as a great crocodile, the cruel boon as its shore, and Rāma’s exile as its expanse, he declared, “In this, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, without Rāghava; for me, living, this ocean of sorrow is impossible to cross.” Lamenting that he could not see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, the king found it unseemly that he did not find them there. Overcome by grief, the great king suddenly fell unconscious upon his couch.