Queen Sumitrā, with gentle and skillful words, sought to console Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, who was weighed down with grief at her son’s exile. She spoke with warmth and conviction: “Soon, you will see your son again. Rāma, accompanied by his friends and bowing in deep respect, will return to you. In that moment, tears of joy will spring from your eyes, just as a rain cloud releases its waters upon the earth. Your son, the gracious bestower of boons, will come home to Ayodhyā and, with his soft and plump hands, will tenderly press your feet. When you behold your heroic son, surrounded by his companions and offering you homage, you will shower him with tears of happiness, much like clouds drenching a mountain’s crest.” Having spoken thus, Queen Sumitrā, whose speech was flawless and comforting, fell silent. Sumitrā’s words, filled with assurance and affection, worked a quiet miracle. The sorrow that had so deeply gripped Kausalyā’s heart dissolved at once, vanishing like an autumn rain cloud that has spent its waters and lingers no more. Thus concluded the forty-fourth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Rāmāyaṇa, the first poem composed by the sage Vālmīki. Let the forty-fifth sarga now be heard. As Rāma departed for the forest, the people of Ayodhyā—devoted to him and recognizing his true valor—could not bear to leave him. Though King Daśaratha, their protector and friend, had already turned back, bound by duty, the citizens pressed on, following Rāma’s chariot with unwavering loyalty. Rāma, renowned for his virtues, was as beloved to the people as the full moon is to the night sky. Despite the heartfelt pleas of the citizens, Rāma, true to his father’s word and the dharma of his lineage, continued on his journey to the forest. As he gazed upon the people who followed him, his eyes drank in their affection, and he spoke to them with the tenderness of a father addressing his own children. “The love and great respect you bear for me—let that, for my sake, be shown especially to Bharata. He, the joy of Kaikeyī and noble in conduct, will do for you what is dear and beneficial. Though young, he is wise, gentle, and heroic; a fitting lord who will remove your fears. He has been endowed with royal qualities and appointed as heir-apparent. Therefore, as I and your elders instruct, you must obey his commands. Just as the king should not grieve during my absence, so too, for my sake, you must act for Bharata’s happiness.” The more King Daśaratha clung to righteousness, the more the people longed for Rāma as their leader. As Rāma spoke, his eyes clouded with tears, and together with Lakṣmaṇa, he seemed to draw the hearts of the townsfolk to himself, so strong was the bond of love and virtue. Then the elders among the twice-born—men advanced in knowledge, age, and vigor, their heads trembling with age—called out from afar: “O swift horses carrying Rāma, turn back! Go no further. It is for your own good and your master’s. All creatures, especially horses, heed human speech; so, having heard our plea, you must turn back. Your lord, pure, righteous, heroic, and steadfast, should be brought back to the city by you—not carried away to the forest.” Hearing the anguished cries of these venerable elders, Rāma was moved. He suddenly descended from the chariot. With Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa by his side, he began to walk on foot, each step placed close together, intent on fulfilling his exile in the forest. Out of compassion, he could not bear to leave behind those Brahmins who had come to bid him farewell. As Rāma proceeded, the Brahmins, their hearts troubled and full of sorrow, called out to him: “All Brahminhood follows you, for you are ever devoted to us. Even the sacred fires we carry on our shoulders accompany you. See these umbrellas, born of Vājapeya sacrifices, following behind us as clouds trail the end of the rains. For you, scorched by the sun and lacking shade, we shall provide cover with these very umbrellas. The resolve that has always guided us by Vedic mantras now follows you into the forest, dear one. The Vedas, which are our greatest wealth and dwell in our hearts, will remain in our homes, as will our wives, protected by virtue. There is no need for further deliberation about your departure; for when you are devoted to righteousness, what remains for us who walk the path of dharma? We beseech you to return, our heads bowed, hair white as swans, our conduct humble and dusted by the earth. Many sacrifices performed by Brahmins here await completion, and their fulfillment depends, dear one, on your return. All beings here, both moving and unmoving, are devoted to you; 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, as if to block the path of Rāghava. Then Sumantra, too, released the weary horses from the chariot, turned them around quickly, and led them—bodies still wet with water—near the place where that darkness gathered. Thus, the hearts of Ayodhyā’s people, the learned Brahmins, and all beings, moved as one in their longing for Rāma, as he set forth, steadfast in dharma, into the depths of the forest.