As the charioteer began his tale, he recalled the moment when his horses, sensing Rāma’s departure for the forest, refused to move forward. They turned back again and again, shedding hot tears, as if grieving alongside the people of Ayodhyā. After offering reverence to both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, he mounted his chariot, carrying the heavy sorrow of separation deep within him. He lingered for many days with Guha, hoping desperately that Rāma might call him back. But that hope remained unfulfilled. Even the trees of Ayodhyā seemed to share his grief; though adorned with flowers, shoots, and buds, they were weighed down and withered. The rivers ran warm, the ponds and lakes dried up, and the forests’ leaves had shriveled. The creatures of the forest no longer stirred, and wild beasts ceased to roam—the entire forest, overcome by sorrow for Rāma, had fallen silent. The lotuses closed their petals, their waters grew turbid, the ponds were scorched, and lilies, along with the fish and birds that once graced them, had disappeared. Water-borne flowers and garlands, and those growing on land, no longer shone; their fragrance faded, and their fruits lost their former sweetness. The gardens stood empty, birds had vanished, and the delightful parks of Ayodhyā were nowhere to be seen. When the charioteer returned to Ayodhyā, no one greeted him. The people, deprived of Rāma’s presence, sighed again and again. As they saw the royal chariot return without Rāma, tears flowed down the faces of all who lined the royal road. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by Rāma’s absence, cried out in lamentation. Their wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, they looked at one another, overwhelmed by pain. In his distress, the charioteer could not distinguish between enemies, friends, or indifferent strangers. The people were joyless; elephants and horses were dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. Ayodhyā, stricken by Rāma’s exile, appeared to him 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: “This was not my wish, nor the counsel of wise elders. It was imposed by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on evil. I did not deliberate with friends, ministers, or citizens; confused and influenced by a woman, I made this decision suddenly. Surely, by fate or some great calamity, this disaster has come upon our family, leading to its ruin. Charioteer, if I have ever done any good for you, take me quickly to Rāma; my life urges me onward. Let any command I have turn Rāghava back; I cannot live even for a moment without him. Or if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, 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’s mind was utterly afflicted. He plunged into the ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross, and spoke: “This ocean of sorrow has Rāma’s exile as its depth, Sītā’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 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 Rāma’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.” He lamented, “It is unseemly that I, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, do not find him here today.” So lamenting, the great king suddenly fell unconscious on his couch. As the king grieved, overwhelmed by sorrow for Rāma, Queen Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, hearing his words, was seized again by deep fear. Trembling again and again as if possessed by spirits, and as if her life had left her, Kausalyā spoke to the charioteer: “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are; without them, I cannot endure to live here even for a moment. Turn the chariot back quickly; take me to Daṇḍaka forest as well. If I do not follow them, I will go to the abode of Yama.” With his voice choked by tears, the charioteer, hands joined in reverence, comforted the queen with gentle words. Thus ends the sixtieth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.