Rama stood there, his face stained with tears, his hands joined in reverence, and Lakshmana’s arm gently shielding him. Sita, steadfast yet weeping, kept her gaze fixed both on the royal chariot and on me, their hearts heavy with sorrow. Now, listen to the fifty-ninth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When I, the charioteer, turned my horses to return, they refused to move forward along the path. Even they shed hot tears, as Rama departed for the forest. After offering my respects to both Rama and Lakshmana, I mounted the chariot, carrying my grief with me. For many days, I remained with Guha, hoping that perhaps Rama would call me back. O great king, in your realm, even the trees have withered, burdened by sorrow for me, though they still bear flowers, shoots, and buds. The rivers run with warm waters, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves are covered in withered leaves. Creatures no longer move about, and wild beasts do not roam; the forest, overcome by grief for Rama, has become silent. The 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 flowers and garlands, whether water-borne or growing on land, have lost their luster; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as they once were. The gardens are empty, the birds have vanished, and, O best of men, I do not see the delightful parks as before. No one greets me as I enter Ayodhyā; the people, deprived of Rama’s presence, sigh again and again. Seeing the royal chariot return without Rama, all along the royal road the people are tearful with grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by the sight of the chariot without Rama, cry out in lamentation. With wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, they look at one another, overwhelmed with pain. In my distress, I can make no distinction 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 Rama’s exile, appears to me like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly joyless. Hearing my words, the king, his voice choked with tears and filled with deep sorrow, addressed me: “This was not approved by me, nor by the wise elders skilled in counsel, but was imposed by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on evil. Neither with friends, ministers, nor with citizens did I deliberate; out of confusion, and because of a woman, I made this decision suddenly. Surely, by fate or some great calamity, this disaster has come upon our family, O charioteer, leading to its ruin. “If I have ever done any good for you, quickly take me to Rama; my life is hurrying me on. Whatever command I have, let it bring Rāghava back; I cannot live even for a moment without Rama. Or if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me on the chariot and swiftly show me to Rama. Where is that elder brother of Lakshmana, with curved tusks and great bow? If I live, may I see him together with Sita. If I do not see Rama, 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, Rama! Rama’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, and spoke: “This ocean of sorrow, with Rama’s exile as its great depth, Sita’s separation as its far shore, sighs as its mighty waves, and tears as its foaming, turbid waters. Its fish are the flailing of arms, its great roar is loud lamentation, its floating weeds are disheveled hair, and its submarine fire is Kaikeyī. Fed by the flood of my tears, with the words of the hunchback as a great crocodile, with the cruel boon as its shore, and Rama’s exile as its expanse. In this, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, without Rāghava; for me, living, this ocean of sorrow is impossible to cross. “It is unseemly that I, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakshmana, do not find him here today.” So lamenting, the great king suddenly fell unconscious on his couch. As the king thus grieved, overwhelmed by sorrow for Rama, the queen—Rama’s mother—hearing his words, was seized again by deep fear. Thus ends the sixtieth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then Kausalyā, trembling again and again as if possessed by spirits, and as if her very life had left her, spoke to the charioteer: “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sita and Lakshmana are; without them, I cannot endure to live here even for a moment. Turn the chariot back quickly; take me also to the Daṇḍaka forest. If I do not follow them, I will go to the abode of Yama.