Once upon a time, the mighty Brahma, beholding the lord of the Dānavas—son of Timidhvaja—slain in battle, bestowed divine weapons upon a hero. This hero, a tiger among men, was none other than Rāma, who, relying solely on his own strength, would dwell in the forest without fear, just as he would in his own home. Any enemy who entered the range of his arrows would surely meet their destruction; how then could the earth not remain under his rule? Rāma’s fortune, valor, and noble nature were unmatched. When his exile in the forest ended, he would swiftly regain his rightful kingdom. In splendor, glory, and forbearance, he was supreme—just as the sun is to the sun, fire to fire, and lord to lord. He stood foremost among gods and beings; what faults could there be in him, whether in the forest or in the city? Soon, Rāma—the best of men—along with the earth, Sītā, and prosperity, would be anointed with these three. Yet, as he departed, the people of Ayodhyā, struck by the force of grief, shed tears born of sorrow. What could be unattainable for this unconquered hero, clad in bark and grass, as fortune followed Sītā who accompanied him? What could be unattainable for him whose foremost skill was with the bow, who bore arrows and sword himself, and for whom Lakṣmaṇa went ahead? Queen Sumitrā spoke to Kausalyā, comforting her: “You will see him again, returned from the forest, O lady; abandon grief and delusion—I speak the truth to you. O blameless one, you will again see your son, bowing at your feet with his head, like the risen moon. Seeing him re-enter, anointed and resplendent, you will quickly shed tears of joy from your eyes. Let there be no sorrow or pain, O lady; nothing inauspicious is seen for Rāma. Soon you will see your son with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. O sinless one, you must comfort all these people; why do you now harbor this distress in your heart? You are not worthy of sorrow, O lady, whose son is Rāghava; for there is no one greater than Rāma, steadfast in the righteous path. Seeing your son, accompanied by friends, bowing in respect, you will soon 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. Seeing your heroic son, accompanied by friends, bowing and paying homage, you will sprinkle him with tears of joy, like a line of clouds upon a mountain.” Having spoken thus, comforting Rāma’s mother with various wise and blameless words, Queen Sumitrā fell silent. Hearing these words from Lakṣmaṇa’s mother, Kausalyā’s grief vanished from her body, like a rain cloud in autumn with little water. Thus ended the forty-fourth sarga of the Ayodhya Kanda in the glorious Ramayana, composed by the sage Valmiki. Let the forty-fifth sarga be heard. As Rāma departed for the forest, the people, devoted to him and recognizing his true valor, followed him. Though King Dasaratha, their friend and protector, had already turned back out of duty, the people did not turn away; they continued to follow Rāma’s chariot. Among the men of Ayodhya, Rāma, renowned and full of virtues, was as dear as the full moon. Though the citizens entreated him at that time, Rāma—Kakutstha—upholding his father’s truth, set out for the forest. Looking at them with affection, as if drinking them in with his eyes, Rāma spoke tenderly to the people, as a father to his own children: “The love and great respect you bear for me—let that, for my sake, be especially shown to Bharata. He, of noble conduct and the joy of Kaikeyi, will properly do for you what is dear and beneficial. Though young in years, he is mature in wisdom, gentle, and endowed with heroic virtues; he will be a fitting lord for you, removing your fears. He is endowed with royal qualities and has been chosen as heir-apparent; and you must also, as instructed by me and the elders, obey your lord’s commands. Just as the king should not grieve when I have gone to the forest, so too, out of regard for me, you must act for his happiness.” The more King Dasaratha adhered to righteousness, the more the people longed for Rāma as their lord. With eyes clouded by tears, Rāma, together with Saumitri, seemed to draw the townspeople to himself by his virtues, as if they were bound to him. Then, the elders among the twice-born, advanced in knowledge, age, and vigor, their heads trembling with age, spoke these words from afar: “O swift horses carrying Rāma, turn back! You must not go further. It is for your own good and your master’s. For all creatures, especially horses, are attentive to speech; therefore, having heard our request, you must turn back. For your lord, pure in spirit, righteous, heroic, and firm in his noble vow, should be brought back to the city by you, not carried away to the forest.” Seeing those elders, distressed and uttering anguished words, Rāma suddenly descended from the chariot.