As the royal chariot returned to Ayodhyā, the city seemed transformed. The once-lively gardens stood empty, their birds vanished, and none of the delightful parks brought any relief to the eye. Entering the city, there was no welcoming crowd—no eager faces or joyful greetings. The people, deprived of Rāma’s presence, sighed again and again, weighed down by sorrow. Along the royal road, the citizens saw the chariot return without Rāma, and tears welled up in their eyes, grief written plainly on every face. From their mansions, palaces, and lofty towers, the women of Ayodhyā, tormented by the absence of Rāma, cried out in lamentation. Their wide, clear eyes brimmed with tears as they looked at one another, all clearly overwhelmed by pain. In the midst of this sorrow, the king confessed that, in his distress, he could not distinguish between enemies, friends, or those indifferent to him—his suffering made all relationships seem the same. The people moved about joyless, and even the elephants and horses were dejected, their voices faint and withered, sighing deeply. Ayodhyā, struck by Rāma’s exile, appeared to the king as joyless as Kausalyā bereft of her son. Hearing the charioteer’s account, King Daśaratha’s voice, choked with tears and heavy with sorrow, broke as he spoke. He declared that this calamity had not been approved by him or the wise elders skilled in counsel; it had been forced upon them by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on her own desires. The king lamented that he had not consulted friends, ministers, or citizens—his confusion and the influence of a woman had led him to this hasty decision. He wondered if fate or some great calamity had brought this disaster upon the royal family, threatening its very ruin. Turning to the charioteer, Daśaratha pleaded, “If I have ever done any good for you, take me quickly to Rāma; my life is slipping away without him. Whatever command I have, let it turn Rāghava back, for 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 show me to Rāma swiftly.” Longing for his son, the king asked, “Where is that elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with curved tusks and 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 Ikṣvāku, have fallen so low 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 grief.” Overwhelmed by intense sorrow, Daśaratha felt as if he were drowning in an ocean of grief, impossible to cross. He described this ocean of sorrow: Rāma’s exile was its great depth, Sītā’s separation its far shore, sighs its mighty waves, and tears its foaming, turbid waters. The flailing of arms were its fish, loud lamentation its terrible roar, disheveled hair its floating weeds, and Kaikeyī its submarine fire. Fed by the flood of his own tears, the words of the hunchback served as a great crocodile, the cruel boon its shore, and Rāma’s exile its vast expanse. “In this ocean, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, without Rāghava. For me, living, this ocean of sorrow cannot be crossed.” The king lamented that it was unseemly for him, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, not to find them there. So grieving, the great king suddenly fell unconscious upon his couch. As Daśaratha lamented, overwhelmed by grief for Rāma, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his words and was seized again by deep fear. Trembling as if possessed and feeling her very life ebb away, Kausalyā turned to the charioteer and pleaded, “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are; without them, I cannot bear 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 gently tried to comfort the queen. “Abandon grief and delusion, and set aside the distress born of sorrow. Know that Rāghava will now dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa too, ever devoted to righteousness and self-control, serves Rāma’s feet in the forest, worshipping 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 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; for she, steadfast in spirit, dwells with Rāma even in the wilderness. Her heart is truly with him, and her life depends on him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is just the same as the forest. “Vaidehī inquires about the villages and towns they pass, 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.” Thus ends the sixtieth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.