With a heart full of compassion, Queen Sumitrā sought to comfort Kausalyā, the mother of Rāma, whose sorrow weighed heavily upon her. She spoke with gentle wisdom, reminding Kausalyā that her son, renowned throughout the world for his steadfastness in righteousness and truth, was destined for greatness. “Why should your son not attain the highest fame?” she said. “Rāma’s purity and supreme virtue are so evident that even the sun’s rays should not dare to scorch his body. At all times, the forest winds—mild and pleasant—will serve Rāghava, neither too hot nor too cold. And when night falls, the cool and soothing moon will embrace the sinless Rāma like a loving father, dispelling any heat and comforting him with its gentle touch.” Sumitrā recalled how the mighty Brahma himself had bestowed upon Rāma divine weapons after witnessing him defeat the formidable son of Timidhvaja, lord of the Dānavas, in battle. “That hero, a tiger among men, relying on his own strength, will dwell in the forest without fear, just as he would in his own home. Any enemy who comes within the range of his arrows meets destruction—how then could the earth not remain under his rule? With his fortune, valor, and noble nature, once Rāma’s exile ends, he will swiftly regain his kingdom.” She continued, “In splendor, glory, and forbearance, Rāma is supreme—just as the sun is to the sun, fire to fire, lord to lord. He is foremost among gods and beings, O noble lady. What fault could there possibly be in him, whether in the forest or in the city? Rāma, the best of men, will soon be anointed with the earth, with Sītā, and with prosperity.” Sumitrā’s words painted a vision of hope: “When the people of Ayodhyā saw him depart, grief overwhelmed them and tears flowed from their eyes. Yet what could be unattainable for your unconquered son, even clad in bark and grass, when fortune itself follows Sītā who walks beside him? What could be beyond reach for him whose skill with the bow is unmatched, who carries his own arrows and sword, and for whom Lakṣmaṇa leads the way?” She assured Kausalyā, “You will see him again, returned from the forest—abandon grief and delusion, for I speak the truth. You will see your son bowing at your feet, radiant as the risen moon. When he returns, anointed and resplendent, tears of joy will flow from your eyes. Let there be no sorrow, no pain; nothing inauspicious is seen for Rāma. Soon you will see your son with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa.” “O sinless one,” Sumitrā urged, “comfort all these people. Why do you harbor this distress in your heart? You are not worthy of sorrow, O lady, whose son is Rāghava—there is no one greater than Rāma, steadfast on the path of righteousness. Soon, seeing your son, accompanied by friends, bowing in respect, you will shed tears of joy, like a rain cloud releasing its waters. Your son, the bestower of boons, will soon return to Ayodhyā and gently press your feet with his soft, plump hands. When you see your heroic son, surrounded by friends, bowing and paying homage, you will sprinkle him with tears of happiness, just as clouds shower rain upon a mountain.” Having spoken these comforting words, Queen Sumitrā fell silent. The gentle wisdom and skill in her speech soothed Kausalyā’s heart, and her grief melted away, vanishing like a rain cloud in autumn that holds little water. Thus ended the forty-fourth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Rāmāyaṇa, the first poem composed by sage Vālmīki. Now, let the forty-fifth sarga be heard. As Rāma departed for the forest, the people of Ayodhyā, devoted to the great-souled prince whose valor was true, followed him. Although King Daśaratha, their friend and protector, had already turned back, compelled by duty, the citizens did not turn away—they continued to follow Rāma’s chariot. Among all the men of Ayodhyā, Rāma—renowned and full of virtues—was as dear to them as the full moon is to the night sky. Though the citizens pleaded with him to stay, Kakutstha, upholding his father’s truth, set out for the forest. Looking upon the people with deep affection, as if drinking them in with his eyes, Rāma addressed them with tender words, as a father would speak to his children. “The love and great respect you bear for me,” he said, “let that, for my sake, be especially shown to Bharata. He, of noble conduct and the joy of Kaikeyi, will do for you what is dear and beneficial. Though young in years, he is mature in wisdom, gentle, and heroic; he will be a fitting lord for you, removing your fears. He is endowed with royal qualities and has been chosen as heir-apparent. As instructed by me and by the elders, you must obey your lord’s commands.” He continued, “Just as the king should not grieve while I am in the forest, so too, out of regard for me, you must act for Bharata’s happiness.” Yet, the more King Daśaratha adhered to righteousness, the more the people longed for Rāma as their lord. With eyes clouded by tears, Rāma, together with Saumitri (Lakṣmaṇa), seemed to draw the townspeople to himself by his virtues, as if they were bound to him. Then, the elders among the twice-born—those advanced in knowledge, age, and vigor, their heads trembling with age—spoke these words from afar, their voices filled with emotion for their beloved prince.