“O noble lady,” said Queen Sumitrā, her voice gentle and steady, “you should not grieve, for your son is Rāghava—there is no one greater than Rāma, steadfast in righteousness. Soon, you will behold your son returning, surrounded by friends, bowing before you in reverence. In that moment, tears of joy will overflow from your eyes, just as rainclouds release their waters upon the earth. “Your son, the giver of boons, will come back to Ayodhyā and, with his soft, plump hands, will gently press your feet. When you see your heroic son, accompanied by his companions, bowing to you with deep respect, you will shower him with tears of happiness, as clouds bathe the mountains with rain. Thus,” Sumitrā concluded, comforting Rāma’s mother with wise and blameless words, “do not let sorrow dwell in your heart.” When Queen Kausalyā heard these words from Lakṣmaṇa’s mother, her grief melted away, vanishing from her body like a raincloud spent of its waters in autumn. Thus ended the forty-fourth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Rāmāyaṇa, the first poem composed by the sage Vālmīki. Now, let the forty-fifth sarga be heard. As Rāma departed for the forest, the people of Ayodhyā, devoted to him and recognizing his true valor, followed him in great numbers. Though King Daśaratha, compelled by duty, had already turned back, the people did not abandon Rāma but continued to follow his chariot. Among all the citizens of Ayodhyā, Rāma—renowned for his virtues—was as beloved as the full moon in the night sky. Even as the people pleaded with him to stay, Rāma, the scion of the Kakutstha line, upheld his father’s command and set out for the forest. Looking upon the gathered people with deep affection, as if drinking them in with his eyes, Rāma spoke to them tenderly, like a father to his children. He said, “The love and great respect you bear for me—let that, for my sake, be especially shown to Bharata. He, the joy of Kaikeyī, noble in conduct, will do for you what is dear and beneficial. Though young in years, he is wise, gentle, and heroic; he will be a fitting lord for you, removing your fears. Endowed with royal qualities and chosen as heir-apparent, you must obey his commands, as instructed by me and the elders. Just as the king should not grieve when I am gone to the forest, so too, for my sake, act for Bharata’s happiness.” The more King Daśaratha upheld 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 by invisible cords. Then, the elders among the twice-born—advanced in knowledge, age, and vigor, their heads trembling with years—called out from afar, “O swift horses carrying Rāma, turn back! Do not go further. It is for your own good and your master’s. All creatures, especially horses, heed speech; so, having heard our request, you must turn back. Your lord, pure, righteous, heroic, and firm in his vow, should be brought back to the city by you, not carried away to the forest.” Hearing the anguished words of these elders, Rāma suddenly descended from the chariot. With Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, he continued on foot, placing his steps close together, intent on the path to the forest. Out of compassion, Rāma could not leave those venerable Brahmins behind by speeding away in the chariot. Seeing Rāma departing, the Brahmins, hearts troubled and deeply afflicted, spoke to him: “All Brahminhood follows you, for you are devoted to us. Even the sacred fires we carry on our shoulders accompany you. See these umbrellas, arisen from Vājapeya sacrifices, following us like clouds after the rains. For you, scorched by the sun and lacking an umbrella, we will provide shade with our Vājapeya umbrellas. The resolve that always guided us by Vedic mantras now follows you into the forest, dear one. “The Vedas, which dwell in our hearts and are our greatest wealth, will remain in our homes, as will our wives, protected by virtue. There is no need for further deliberation about your departure; when you are devoted to righteousness, what remains for us who stand on the path of dharma? “We beseech you to return, with our heads bowed, our hair white as swans, our conduct humble and dusted by the earth. Many sacrifices performed by Brahmins here await completion; their fulfillment depends, dear one, on your return. All beings here, both moving and unmoving, are devoted; when they beseech you, show devotion to the devoted. “Unable to follow you, their roots torn and driven by the wind, the trees seem to cry out as they are lifted by the breeze. Birds, motionless in food and movement, fixed in their trees, also beseech you, the compassionate to all beings.” As the Brahmins cried out for Rāma’s return, darkness seemed to descend, blocking the path of Rāghava and enveloping all in sorrow.