O great king, in your realm, even the trees themselves seem to mourn my absence. Though they bear flowers, shoots, and buds, they have withered, weighed down by sorrow for me. The rivers run with warm waters, the ponds and lakes are parched, and the forests and groves have shed their leaves, all signs of nature’s grief. Creatures no longer move about, wild beasts do not roam—the entire forest, overcome by grief for Rāma, has fallen silent. The lotuses have closed their petals, their waters have grown turbid, the ponds are scorched, and the lilies, along with the fish and birds that once enlivened them, have vanished. The water-borne flowers and garlands, and those growing on land, have lost their radiance; their fragrance is faint, and the fruits are no longer as they were before. The gardens stand empty, the birds have disappeared, and, O best of men, the delightful parks I once knew are now nowhere to be seen. As I enter Ayodhyā, no one comes forth to welcome me. The people, deprived of seeing Rāma, sigh again and again in their sorrow. When the royal chariot returns without Rāma, all who line the royal road are filled with tears and grief. From their mansions, palaces, and towers, the women, tormented by the absence of Rāma, cry out in lamentation. Their wide, clear eyes brimming with tears, the women look at each other, visibly overwhelmed with pain. In my distress, I can no longer distinguish 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, seems to me like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly without joy. Hearing the charioteer’s words, the king’s voice became choked with tears and heavy with sorrow, and he spoke: “This was not my will, nor was it approved by the wise elders skilled in counsel. It was Kaikeyī, her mind bent on evil, who imposed this upon us. I did not deliberate with friends, ministers, or citizens; bewildered and swayed by a woman, I made this sudden decision. Surely, by fate or some great calamity, this disaster has come upon our family, O charioteer, leading us to ruin. If ever I have done you any good, quickly take me to Rāma—for my life hastens away from me. Let whatever command I have turn Rāghava back; I cannot live even 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 a great bow? If I live, may I see him together with Sītā. If I do not see Rāma—with his 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 the line of Ikṣvāku, have come to such a state and do not see Rāghava here? Alas, Rāma! Alas, younger brother of Rāma! 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: “This ocean of sorrow has 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 herself. Fed by the flood of my tears, with the words of the hunchback as a great crocodile, 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, longing 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 thus, overwhelmed by sorrow 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 shall go to the abode of Yama.” With his voice choked by the force of tears, the charioteer, hands joined in reverence, tried to comfort the queen: “Abandon grief and delusion, and also the distress born of sorrow. Set aside your anguish, knowing that Rāghava will dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa too, serving Rāma’s feet in the forest, devoted to righteousness and self-controlled, worships him as one would a higher world. Even in the lonely forest, Sītā, having found her dwelling, feels as secure as if in her own home, fearless, her mind entrusted to Rāma. I do not perceive even the slightest trace of dejection in her; Vaidehī seems well suited to exile, O Queen.