In a moment of profound faith, King Dasaratha felt his spirit stirred as Sumanthra recounted Rama’s steadfast devotion to his family and kingdom. “Sumanthra,” the king said, “your words are like a soothing balm upon the inferno of my mind. You bring news that Rama crossed the Ganga with an unwavering commitment to return to Ayodhya and fulfill his duties. Yet, my heart is burdened by an undercurrent of fear—what if the deep insult he suffered keeps him from ever returning? Might he, spurred by Lakshmana and Sita, settle elsewhere and forsake his homeland?”
This gnawing doubt had devoured Dasaratha’s peace, but Sumanthra’s vivid narrative offered a glimmer of solace. To fortify his shaken faith, the king implored, “Tell me more, Sumanthra, so I may piece together this tale and silence the tumult of doubt and despair within me.”
Sumanthra, with humility and precision, began his tale:
“O King, I witnessed them with my own eyes. The trio, clad in simple linen that radiated purity, crossed the Ganga and journeyed toward Prayaga. Lakshmana led the way, armed with a bow, a quiver, and a sword, also carrying a crowbar and dish to gather roots and pods for their ascetic sustenance. Vigilant, he guarded Sita, who walked behind him, while Rama, armed and watchful, followed, protecting them both. Onlookers whispered that Sita walked as though flanked by two mighty lions, safe and serene under their vigilant watch.
I stayed at Guha’s dwelling for three days, hoping that Rama might summon me back. When no such sign appeared, I departed, as instructed, to bring you the message of their safe passage. Even my horses seemed reluctant to part from their service to Rama. I prayed to them, saying, ‘O noble steeds, blessed to serve the righteous Rama, help me fulfill my duty and return with his message.’ Moved by my plea, they swiftly brought me back to Ayodhya.
As I approached the city, a pall of desolation seemed to shroud it. The lush greenery of Ayodhya had paled, the waters of its ponds seemed to boil inexplicably, and the cool breezes had turned to warm sighs. The domestic animals appeared listless, the fish floated in distress, and even the fragrant blooms had lost their scent. The people, peering from their windows, wept as though bereft of their dearest. Their vision, blurred by tears, could scarcely discern the world around them. There was no distinction in the grief—it consumed Rama’s friends, foes, and strangers alike.”
Sumanthra’s account painted a vivid picture of Ayodhya’s despair, urging the king to act. Dasaratha, deeply moved, replied, “I see now the folly of my hasty decision, made in a moment of weakness without the counsel of my wise ministers. A decision driven by power and emotion has brought devastation to my house and my kingdom. Sumanthra, if I have ever done any good for you, take me to Rama. If that is not possible, bring him back to me! Lead I to the place where you last saw him, and I shall find him by the imprint of his footsteps or the sound of his breath. I cannot rest until I behold him again.”
Dasaratha’s voice broke as he was overcome by sorrow. “O Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita, you do not know the depth of my anguish. Kausalya, my grief is an ocean—the depth is Rama, the shores are Sita, the tides are Lakshmana, and the cries are its waves. Mandhara is the crocodile, and Kaikeyi the fire that consumes it. I am drowning in this sea of despair.”
In his despair, Dasaratha sank into unconsciousness, leaving Sumanthra stunned by the intensity of his grief. The palace was swept into a storm of sorrow as fate prepared to unveil the next chapter of this tragic tale.
