When the news of King Daśaratha’s passing reached Rāma, grief overwhelmed him so deeply that he collapsed to the earth, lying motionless on the riverbank like a mighty elephant, utterly spent and fast asleep. Around him, his brothers—valiant archers all—were equally worn down by sorrow. Together with Sītā, they wept and gently sprinkled cool water on Rāma, hoping to revive him from his faint. As Rāma regained consciousness, tears streamed from his eyes, and he began to utter many pitiful words, his heart aching with loss. When he learned that his father, the great king and lord of the earth, had departed from this world, Rāma, ever righteous, turned to Bharata and spoke words rooted in dharma: “Now that my father has set forth on his destined path, what purpose remains for me in Ayodhyā? Who will rule Ayodhyā now, that city which thrived under the care of that foremost of kings?” He continued, “What duty is left for me, born of such difficult circumstance, toward that great-souled one who died grieving for me, for whom I could not even perform the final rites? Bharata, you are truly fortunate, for you and Shatrughna were able to honor the king with all the proper funeral ceremonies. But even if I complete my exile, I cannot bear the thought of returning to Ayodhyā, which, now bereft of its sovereign, wanders leaderless and distracted. Even if I do return, who will rule there, now that my father has gone to the other world?” Rāma’s voice grew softer as he remembered, “Once, when my father saw me behave well, he would speak gentle words to comfort me—how will I ever again hear those pleasing words?” Having thus spoken to Bharata, Rāma approached Sītā, whose face shone like the full moon, and addressed her with a heart torn by grief: “Sītā, your father-in-law has died; you are now without a father, and so are you, Lakṣmaṇa. Bharata brings us the sorrowful news that the king has ascended to heaven.” As Rāma spoke, tears welled up in the eyes of the noble princes. The brothers, striving to console him, said, “Let us perform the water-rite for our father, the lord of the earth.” When Sītā heard that her father-in-law, the king, had gone to the heavenly realms, her eyes filled with tears, and she could not even look at her husband. Rāma, seeing her distress, comforted Janaka’s daughter as she wept. Though he too was sorrowful, he turned to Lakṣmaṇa, who was also grieving, and said, “Bring me a cake of ingudī flour and fetch a bark garment; I will go to perform the water-rite for my great-souled father. Let Sītā go ahead, and you walk beside her; I will follow behind, for this path is exceedingly harsh.” Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted, self-controlled, gentle, and steadfast in his wisdom, did as Rāma asked. Sumantara, along with the princes, offered comfort to Rāma and helped him descend to the auspicious Mandākinī river. With much difficulty, the illustrious ones reached the beautiful river, whose banks were always adorned with flowering groves. At a holy, pure, and mudless ford where the waters flowed swiftly, they poured out water, saying, “May this be for you, O King.” Rāma, his hands joined and filled with water, turned to the southern direction, weeping, and cried out, “O tiger among kings, may this pure, unfailing water, offered by me today, reach you who have gone to the world of the ancestors.” Rāma then crossed back from the riverbank, performing the water-offering for his father together with his brothers. On a bed of darbha grass, they placed cakes made of flour mixed with jujube and barley. Overwhelmed with grief, Rāma wept as he spoke: “O great king, partake of this, be pleased, for we ourselves are without proper food. As is the food a person eats, so is the food offered to his ancestors.” Following the same path, Rāma, the tiger among men, climbed the lovely slope of the mountain. Upon reaching the entrance of their leaf-hut, he embraced both Bharata and Lakṣmaṇa with his arms. The sound of their weeping echoed through the mountain, for the brothers, together with Vaidehī, mourned their father, their cries like the roars of lions. The tumultuous sound of their lamentation as they performed the water-offering for the king reached the ears of Bharata’s soldiers, filling them with fear. They said among themselves, “Surely Bharata has met with Rāma; this great sound must be from those grieving for their departed father.” All of them, leaving their quarters, hurried in the same direction, united in purpose, each hastening to his proper place. Some men rode on horses, others on elephants, some in well-adorned chariots, and still others, delicate of form, went on foot. All the people, eager to see Rāma—whose exile seemed to have lasted an eternity—hurried toward the hermitage. With the clamor of hoofs and wheels, they gathered in many kinds of vehicles, eager to behold the brothers. The ground, struck by the wheels and hooves of so many vehicles, resounded with a tumultuous noise, like the sky at the meeting of thunderclouds. Frightened by this sound, elephants, surrounded by their young, fled, filling the air with their scent as they moved to another part of the forest. Herds of boars and wolves, buffaloes, serpents, monkeys, tigers, wild oxen, gavayas, and spotted deer all fled together in fear. Even the birds—Rathāṅgas, Natyūhās, Hamsas, Kāraṇḍavas, Plavas, male Kokilas, and Krauñcas—scattered in confusion in every direction, disturbed by the commotion. Thus, in the deep forest, the grief of Rāma and his brothers for their departed father stirred not only the hearts of men but also the very creatures of the wild, as all mourned the loss of the great king Daśaratha.