As the royal chariot made its return journey without Rāma, the people who lined the king’s road were overcome with grief. Tears welled in their eyes as they beheld the empty seat where their beloved prince should have sat. From the lofty mansions, grand palaces, and high towers of Ayodhyā, the women gazed out, tormented by the sight of Rāma’s absence. Their cries of lamentation echoed through the city, their wide and clear eyes brimming with sorrowful tears as they looked at one another, all equally overwhelmed by pain. In such distress, the boundaries between friend and foe, or those indifferent, seemed to dissolve—grief united all alike. The city was joyless; even the elephants and horses moved dejectedly, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply as if sharing in the people’s sorrow. Ayodhyā, stricken by Rāma’s exile, appeared utterly bereft of joy, like Kausalyā herself deprived of her son. When the charioteer recounted what had happened, King Daśaratha’s voice was choked with tears and heavy with anguish as he spoke. He confessed that this exile was not a decision made with the counsel of wise elders, but was forced by Kaikeyī, whose heart had turned to harshness. He had not consulted friends, ministers, or citizens; confused and swayed by a woman’s demand, he had made this fateful choice on impulse. The king lamented that it must be by cruel fate or some great calamity that such disaster had befallen his house, threatening its very ruin. In his desperation, he pleaded with the charioteer, “If I have ever done you any good, take me swiftly to Rāma; my life is slipping away from me.” He implored that any command he might give should be used to bring Rāghava back, for he could not endure even a moment without his son. “Or if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me in the chariot and show me to Rāma as quickly as you can.” Longing for his son, Daśaratha cried, “Where is that elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with his curved tusks and great bow? If I live, may I see him together with Sītā again. If I do not behold Rāma, with his blood-red eyes, mighty arms, and gem-studded earrings, I will surely go to the abode of Yama.” The king’s anguish deepened as he reflected, “What could be more painful than this: that I, descended from the Ikṣvāku line, have come to such a state and do not see Rāghava here?” He called out in despair, “Alas, Rāma! Rāma’s younger brother! Alas, ascetic Vaidehī! You do not know that I am dying, abandoned by sorrow.” Overwhelmed by intense grief, his mind completely afflicted, the king described his state as being submerged in an ocean of sorrow—an ocean whose great depth was Rāma’s exile, whose distant shore was Sītā’s separation, whose mighty waves were sighs, and whose foaming, turbid waters were tears. This ocean, he said, was filled with the flailing of arms like fish, the roar of lamentation as its thunder, disheveled hair as floating weeds, and Kaikeyī as its submarine fire. It was fed by the flood of his tears, the words of the hunchback acting as a great crocodile, the cruel boon as its shore, and Rāma’s exile as its expanse. “In this ocean, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, without Rāghava; for me, living, this sorrow is impossible to cross.” Lamenting that he could not see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, the king’s grief became unbearable, and he suddenly fell unconscious upon his couch. As Daśaratha lamented, crushed by sorrow for Rāma, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his words and was seized again by deep fear. Thus ends the sixtieth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Kausalyā, trembling as if possessed by spirits and feeling as though her very life had left her, turned to 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 to the Daṇḍaka forest as well. If I do not follow them, I will go to the abode of Yama.” The charioteer, his voice choked by tears, joined his hands and sought to comfort the queen. “Abandon grief and delusion, and also the distress born of sorrow,” he urged. “Set aside your anguish, for Rāghava will dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa too, devoted to righteousness and self-control, serves Rāma’s feet in the forest, worshipping him as one would a higher world.” He continued, “Even in the lonely forest, Sītā, having found her dwelling, feels as secure as if she were in her own home, her mind entrusted to Rāma and free from fear. I do not see 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; steadfast in spirit, she 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. 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.” The charioteer recalled only one moment when Sītā had spoken words connected with Kaikeyī, but those words, spoken in carelessness, had since been dispelled. He then spoke sweet and pleasing words to soothe the queen’s heart. Thus, the grief of Ayodhyā, the anguish of Daśaratha and Kausalyā, and the steadfastness of Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa in exile were woven together in sorrow and hope, as the city and its people struggled to bear the absence of their beloved Rāma.