When I turned my chariot to return, the horses themselves resisted, refusing to move forward along the path. They wept hot tears, as if grieving for Rāma, who was departing for the forest. With a heavy heart, I paid my respects to both princes and, mounting the chariot, began the journey back, sorrow weighing upon me. For many days, I remained there with Guha, hoping against hope that perhaps Rāma would call for me again. O great king, even the trees in your kingdom seem to share in my sorrow—they have withered, though still adorned with flowers, fresh shoots, and buds. The rivers run with warm waters, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves are filled with withered leaves. The creatures of the wild do not stir; even the animals have ceased their roaming. The forest, overwhelmed by grief for Rāma, lies in utter silence. The lotuses have closed their petals, their waters are muddied, the ponds are scorched, and the lilies, along with the birds and the fish, have vanished. Flowers and garlands, whether waterborne or growing on land, no longer shine—their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are not as they once were. The gardens here are empty, the birds have disappeared, and, O best of men, the once-delightful parks no longer bring joy. When I entered Ayodhyā, there was no welcome for me; the people, deprived of Rāma’s presence, sigh again and again. When they saw the royal chariot return without Rāma, all along the royal road, the people’s eyes filled with tears of grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by the absence of Rāma, cried out in lamentation. With wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, they gazed at one another, clearly overwhelmed with pain. In my distress, I could no longer distinguish between enemy, friend, or stranger. The people were joyless; even the elephants and horses seemed dejected, their voices faint and weary, sighing deeply. O great king, Ayodhyā, stricken by Rāma’s exile, appears to me like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly joyless. Upon hearing my words, the king, his voice choked with tears and heavy with sorrow, spoke: “This was not my wish, nor was it approved by the wise elders skilled in counsel. It was forced upon us by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on evil. I did not deliberate with friends, ministers, or citizens; in 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. Charioteer, if I have ever done any good for you, quickly take me to Rāma; my life is slipping away. Whatever command I have, let it bring 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 take me to see Rāma. Where is that elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with curved tusks and a 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, and spoke: “This 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. 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 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.” “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 mourned thus, overwhelmed by grief for Rāma, the queen—Rāma’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 Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are; without them, I cannot endure to live here even for a moment. Turn the chariot back quickly; take me to the 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, sought to comfort the queen with gentle words: “Abandon grief and delusion, and also the distress born of sorrow; setting aside your anguish, know that Rāghava will dwell in the forest.