As Sumantra, the royal charioteer, entered the city of Ayodhyā, he found himself met with a heavy silence. Not a soul came forward to welcome him; the people, deprived of Rāma’s beloved presence, could only sigh again and again, their hearts aching with longing. Along the grand royal road, the sight of the chariot returning without Rāma brought tears to the eyes of all who watched, their grief plain upon their faces. From their lofty mansions, palaces, and towers, the women of Ayodhyā gazed out, tormented by the absence of Rāma. Their cries of lamentation echoed through the air, their wide, clear eyes brimming with tears as they looked upon one another, each clearly overwhelmed by sorrow. In the depths of his own distress, Sumantra could no longer distinguish between friend and foe, or those who were indifferent; all around him, grief had leveled every difference. The city itself seemed shrouded in gloom—its people joyless, the elephants and horses moving listlessly, their voices faint and weary, sighing deeply as if mourning with the citizens. Sumantra turned to the king and spoke, “O great king, Ayodhyā, struck by Rāma’s exile, appears to me like Kausalyā bereft of her son—utterly joyless.” Hearing these words, King Daśaratha’s voice was choked with tears, sorrow filling every word as he addressed the charioteer. “This was not my wish, nor was it approved by the wise elders skilled in counsel. It was imposed by Kaikeyī, whose mind was bent on evil. I did not deliberate with friends, ministers, or the citizens. In my confusion, and because of a woman, I made this decision suddenly. Surely, by fate or by some great calamity, this disaster has come upon our family, O charioteer, leading us to ruin.” Then, with desperation, he pleaded, “Charioteer, if ever I have done good for you, quickly take me to Rāma; my life urges me on. Whatever command I have, let it turn Rāghava back, for I cannot live even a moment without him. 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, the one 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 such a state and do not see Rāghava here?” He cried out, “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 felt himself plunged into an ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross, and he spoke of it: “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. It is 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.” He lamented further, “It is unseemly that I, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, do not find him here today.” So lamenting, the great king suddenly collapsed unconscious upon his couch. As the king grieved thus, overwhelmed by longing for Rāma, Queen Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his words and was seized again by deep fear. Thus ends the sixtieth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then, trembling again and again as if possessed, and feeling as though her very life had left her, Kausalyā spoke to Sumantra, the charioteer. “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are,” she pleaded. “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.” The charioteer, his voice choked by tears and his hands joined in reverence, sought to comfort the queen. “Abandon grief and delusion, O Queen, and also the distress born of sorrow. Setting aside your anguish, know 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 worship 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. Just as she once delighted in the city’s gardens, so now Sītā finds joy in the solitary forests. Sītā, whose face resembles the young moon, delights like a child; for she, steadfast in spirit, dwells with Rāma even in the lonely forest. Her heart is truly gone to him, and her life depends on him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is just the same as the forest.” He continued, “Vaidehī inquires about villages and towns, observing the courses of rivers and the various kinds of trees. By asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, she learns whatever she wishes; and, as if within earshot of Ayodhyā, she finds comfort in their company. I only recall her suddenly uttered words, spoken in connection with Kaikeyī; now, they no longer come to my mind.” Thus, with gentle words, Sumantra tried to console the heartbroken queen, even as sorrow and longing filled the palace of Ayodhyā.