As Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita mourned together, their cries echoed across the mountain, sounding like the fierce roar of lions. The grief of the brothers and Vaidehī was so profound that the very air vibrated with their lamentation. As they performed the solemn water-offering for their departed father, the tumult of their sorrow reached the ears of Bharata’s soldiers, filling them with fear and unease. Whispering among themselves, the soldiers wondered if Bharata had finally met Rama, believing the great sound to be the mourning of those bereaved by their father’s death. Driven by curiosity and concern, everyone left their encampments, hurrying in the same direction, their minds united and each finding his proper place. Some men rode swiftly on horses, others advanced on elephants, some traveled in beautifully decorated chariots, while others, delicate in form, moved on foot. Eager to see Rama—who, though recently exiled, seemed to have been gone for ages—the crowds pressed forward toward the hermitage. The desire to behold the brothers drew people together in all manner of vehicles, the clamor of hoofs and wheels filling the air. The ground thundered under the weight of so many people and their conveyances, resounding like the sky during a storm when clouds collide. Frightened by this tumult, elephants gathered their young and moved away, filling the air with their scent as they retreated deeper into the forest. Herds of boars, wolves, buffaloes, serpents, monkeys, tigers, wild oxen, gavayas, and spotted deer fled together, seeking safety. Birds of many kinds—Rathāṅgas, Natyūhās, Hamsas, Kāraṇḍavas, Plavas, male Kokilas, and Krauñcas—scattered in confusion, flying in all directions. The sky was soon filled with birds, while the earth was crowded with people; at that moment, both appeared resplendent, shining with life and movement. Suddenly, the crowd caught sight of Rama, the tiger among men, illustrious and unconquered by enemies, seated on the bare ground. Approaching him, the people, their faces stained with tears, condemned Kaikeyi and Manthara for their deeds. Overwhelmed by sorrow, they stood before Rama, and he, righteous and compassionate, embraced them as a father would his sons or a mother her children. Some he embraced, others he greeted; the prince honored all his peers and relatives with appropriate respect. Throughout the earth and sky, the sound of these great souls’ weeping echoed, resounding through caves, mountains, and all directions like the deep roll of drums. Thus ended the one hundred and second sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Meanwhile, sage Vasiṣṭha, placing the wives of Daśaratha at the forefront, led them toward the place where Rama was, eager for their reunion. The royal women walked slowly toward the Mandākinī river, and there they saw the sacred spot where Rama and Lakṣmaṇa often dwelled. Kausalyā, her face dry and streaked with tears, spoke sorrowfully to Sumitrā and the other queens. She pointed out the sacred place where those blameless in action—her sons—now suffered, deprived and cast out from their kingdom into the forest. She reminded Sumitrā that her son, Lakṣmaṇa, always fetched water tirelessly for Rama, and that even the youngest son, though innocent, acted only with virtue for his brother’s sake. Kausalyā urged that even now, Sumitrā’s son, though unaccustomed to hardship, should avoid any act that is base or unworthy, which brings suffering. With wide eyes, she saw on the southern-pointed blades of darbha grass the ingudi seed cake left by her husband, Rama, on the ground. Seeing this, placed there by Rama in his grief for his father, Queen Kausalyā spoke to all the wives of Daśaratha. She pointed out the offering made by Rāghava to his great father, the lord of the Ikṣvāku line, given according to proper rites. Yet, she lamented that such humble food was not fitting for the king, who had once enjoyed all pleasures. She wondered how, after ruling the earth to its four ends and being as lordly as Mahendra, the ruler of the world could now receive only ingudi fruit and pressed cakes. Nothing seemed more painful to her than seeing Rama, so prosperous, offer his father only ingudi fruit and honey. She questioned how her heart did not shatter into a thousand pieces from grief upon witnessing Rama give his father such humble cakes. Kausalyā reflected that the worldly saying seemed true: as is a person’s food, so are the deities who preside over him. Seeing her so afflicted, her co-wives comforted her. In the hermitage, they beheld Rama, like a god fallen from heaven. The mothers, tormented by grief, shed tears aloud as they saw Rama, who had renounced all enjoyments. Rama, true to his word and a tiger among men, rose and touched the blessed feet of all his mothers. With their soft, tender fingers, those wide-eyed women gently wiped the dust from Rama’s back. Saumitri, too, seeing all the mothers distressed, respectfully greeted them in turn, after Rama, with deep feeling. All the women showed the same affection for Lakshmana, born of Dasharatha and marked by auspicious signs, as they did for Rama. Sita, sorrowful, touched the feet of her mothers-in-law and stood before them, her eyes filled with tears.