As Rāma departed, the people of Ayodhyā, overwhelmed by sorrow, could not contain their grief. Tears flowed freely, born from the pain of separation. Yet, among them, hope glimmered—what could possibly be unattainable for Rāma, the unconquered hero clad in humble bark and grass, especially with fortune following Sītā, who walked beside him? What could stand in the way of one so skilled with the bow, bearing arrows and sword, with Lakṣmaṇa leading the way? Words of comfort rose among the crowd. “You will see Rāma again, returned from the forest,” they assured Kausalyā, his mother. “Abandon grief and delusion; I speak the truth. O blameless one, your son will once more bow at your feet, his head lowered in reverence, like the moon rising after darkness. When he re-enters Ayodhyā, anointed and resplendent, tears of joy will flow swiftly 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 these people. Why do you harbor distress in your heart? You are not worthy of sorrow, O lady whose son is Rāghava, for there is none greater than Rāma, steadfast in 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 return to Ayodhyā and gently press your feet with his soft, plump hands. Seeing your heroic son with his companions, bowing and paying homage, you will sprinkle him with tears of joy, just as clouds shower a mountain.” Having spoken these gentle and skillful words to Rāma’s mother, Queen Sumitrā fell silent. Hearing Sumitrā’s comforting words, 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, the first poem composed by the sage Valmiki. Let the forty-fifth sarga be heard in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. The people of Ayodhyā, devoted to the great-souled Rāma whose valor was true, followed him as he departed for the forest. Though their king, their friend and protector, had already turned back out of duty, the citizens did not turn away, but continued to follow Rāma’s chariot. Among all the men of Ayodhyā, Rāma, renowned and full of virtues, was as dear as the full moon. Though entreated by the citizens, Kakutstha, upholding his father’s word, 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 would to his own children. “The love and respect you bear for me—let that, for my sake, be especially shown to Bharata. He, noble in 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. 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, act for Bharata’s 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. 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 these elders, distressed and uttering anguished words, Rāma suddenly descended from the chariot. With Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, he proceeded on foot, placing his steps close together, intent on the forest. Rāma, who cherished righteous conduct, could not, out of compassion, leave those Brahmins behind by chariot. Seeing Rāma departing, the Brahmins, their minds troubled and deeply afflicted, spoke to him: “All Brahminhood follows you, for you are devoted to Brahmins; even these fires, borne on the shoulders of Brahmins, accompany you. See these umbrellas, arisen from Vājapeya sacrifices, following behind us like clouds after the end of the rains. For you, scorched by the sun’s rays and lacking an umbrella, we will provide shade with our own Vājapeya umbrellas. The resolve that always guided us according to Vedic mantras, for your sake, now follows you into the forest, dear one.” Thus, the story continues, with Rāma’s departure stirring the hearts of Ayodhyā’s people, the wise elders, and the devoted Brahmins, all united in their love and reverence for him.