लक्ष्मणस्य प्रत्यागमनं रामसान्त्वनं च

Lakṣmaṇa, joy of the Raghus, spent that night on the bank of the Keśinī, rose again at daybreak and set out. When half the day had passed, the great warrior entered Ayodhyā, full of treasures and thronged with happy, thriving people. The city's gladness was the very opposite of Lakṣmaṇa's grief; the people did not know what sorrow their words had brought upon the royal house. Wise as he was, Lakṣmaṇa sank into deep dejection. "When I reach Rāma's feet," he thought, "now that I have come back, what am I to say?" He had done what he was sent to do, but he feared that his report would only deepen Rāma's grief, and being wise he weighed its effect beforehand. As he pondered, Rāma's splendid palace, bright as the moon, came into view before him: the palace shone white, but the heart of the king who lived in it was dark. At the gate of the king's palace the best of men got down from his chariot and went in unhindered, his face cast down and his heart heavy, ashamed and grieving, shrinking even from looking at Rāma's face.

He saw his elder brother Rāghava before him, seated on his high seat, dejected, his eyes full of tears; the tears showed that Rāma too had passed those two days in grief, and sitting on the royal seat did not lift his sorrow. Sick at heart, Lakṣmaṇa clasped his feet and, with joined palms and a collected mind, said in a sorrowful voice, "Honouring my noble brother's command, I have left the daughter of Janaka on the bank of the Gaṅgā, at Vālmīki's fair hermitage, just as you directed. I left that virtuous and glorious lady there at the edge of the hermitage, hero, and I have come back to serve at your feet once more." His report was brief and kept to the facts; he said nothing here of Sītā's lament or her message, so as not to add to Rāma's pain. Yet in calling her "virtuous and glorious" he bore witness to her purity, and by saying he had come back to serve at Rāma's feet he declared that his service had not been broken: painful as the task had been, he was still Rāma's servant.

"Do not grieve, tiger among men," he went on. "Such is the course of time. Men like you, wise and high-minded, do not grieve. All that is gathered ends in decay, all that rises ends in a fall, all union ends in parting, and life ends in death." This is one of the most famous verses of the Rāmāyaṇa; in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa Rāma gave the same teaching to Bharata, and now Lakṣmaṇa gave Rāma's own words back to him. "So one should not be too deeply attached to sons or wives, to friends or wealth, for parting from them is certain. You can master self by self and mind by mind, Kākutstha, and all the worlds besides; how much more your own grief! Bulls among men like you are not bewildered by such things. That slander will come back upon you, Rāghava. The very slander for fear of which Maithilī was abandoned will arise again in the city, O king; there is no doubt of it. So, tiger among men, be steadfast and collected; give up this weakness of mind and do not torment yourself." Lakṣmaṇa's reasoning was shrewd: if Rāma went on grieving, the citizens would say that he had cast off the woman who had lived in another man's house and yet mourned for her night and day, and the whole purpose of the abandonment would be lost. Here Lakṣmaṇa spoke not only as a brother but almost as a minister, reminding Rāma of a king's duty. In the earlier sargas it was Lakṣmaṇa who wept; now he stood firm and comforted Rāma, and the roles were reversed. "Weakness of mind" is a hard phrase: Lakṣmaṇa counted Rāma's grief as a frailty unworthy of a hero.

So addressed by the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, Kākutstha, who loved those close to him, spoke to him with great affection, tender towards his brother even in his sorrow. "It is just as you say, best of men, heroic Lakṣmaṇa," he said, "and I am well pleased that my command has been carried out. Relief has come, gentle one, and my anguish is dispelled. Your fine words have consoled me, Lakṣmaṇa." The king humbly accepted his younger brother's counsel, and praised his faithfulness in carrying out the order. He said he had turned away from his grief; yet his calm seems only outward, for Sītā lived in his heart always, as the golden image of Sītā at the horse-sacrifice will later show. So the episode of Sītā's abandonment ends here: the king's duty prevails over the householder's, but the poet leaves Rāma's hidden grief lodged in the reader's mind. In the next sarga Rāma turns again to the business of his subjects and tells Lakṣmaṇa the story of King Nṛga.