Queen Sumitrā, with gentle and skillful words, sought to comfort Kausalyā, the mother of Rāma, whose heart was heavy with sorrow. She spoke with conviction and warmth, assuring her that her beloved son, the bestower of boons, would soon return to Ayodhyā. Sumitrā painted a tender picture: Rāma, with his soft and plump hands, would once again press Kausalyā’s feet in loving reverence. She spoke of the joy that awaited Kausalyā—the moment when her heroic son, accompanied by his companions, would bow before her, paying homage. In that moment, Sumitrā said, tears of happiness would flow from Kausalyā’s eyes and fall upon Rāma, just as rain-laden clouds pour their waters on the mountain peaks. Having offered these words of solace, Sumitrā fell silent, her speech flawless and filled with compassion. The effect was immediate: Kausalyā’s grief, which had weighed on her like a heavy cloud, lifted and vanished, just as a rain cloud dissipates in the clear skies of autumn. Thus concluded the forty-fourth sarga of the Ayodhya Kanda in the illustrious Rāmāyaṇa, composed by the sage Vālmīki. Let now the forty-fifth sarga be heard. As Rāma departed for the forest, the people of Ayodhyā, deeply devoted to him and inspired by his true valor, could not bear to be parted from him. Though King Daśaratha—their friend and protector—had already turned back, compelled by duty, the citizens did not follow his lead. Instead, their hearts full of love, they continued to follow Rāma’s chariot, unwilling to let him go. Among all the men of Ayodhyā, Rāma—renowned for his virtues—was as beloved as the full moon is to the night sky. Even as the citizens pleaded with him, Rāma, the scion of the Kakutstha line and steadfast in upholding his father’s word, pressed on toward the forest. Looking back with deep affection, as though drawing the sight of his people into his very being, Rāma spoke to them with the tenderness of a father addressing his children. He urged them to show the same love and respect they bore for him to Bharata, his younger brother. Bharata, he assured them, was of noble conduct, the delight of Kaikeyī, and would do all that was dear and beneficial for the people. Though still young, Bharata possessed mature wisdom, gentleness, and heroic virtues, making him a worthy lord who would dispel their fears. Rāma reminded them that Bharata had been endowed with royal qualities and chosen as heir-apparent. He urged the people, as their duty and as instructed by the elders, to obey Bharata’s commands. Just as the king should not grieve at Rāma’s departure, so too should the people strive for Bharata’s happiness, out of regard for Rāma himself. Yet, the more King Daśaratha adhered to righteousness, the more the people yearned for Rāma as their lord. As Rāma, with Saumitri (Lakṣmaṇa) at his side, looked upon the townspeople, his eyes clouded with tears, it seemed as if his very virtues bound the people to him, drawing them ever closer. Then, from among the elders of the twice-born—those advanced in knowledge, age, and vigor, their heads trembling with age—came voices raised in supplication. From afar, they called out, “O swift horses carrying Rāma, turn back! Go no further. It is for your own good and your master’s.” They reasoned that all creatures, especially horses, attend closely to human speech. Therefore, having heard their plea, the horses should turn back, for their lord—pure, righteous, heroic, and resolute in his noble vow—ought to be brought back to the city, not carried away to the forest. Hearing the anguished words of these elders, Rāma was moved. He suddenly descended from the chariot, joined by Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, and proceeded on foot, his steps close together, intent on his journey to the forest. Out of compassion, Rāma could not bear to leave the Brahmins behind by continuing on the chariot. Seeing Rāma depart, the Brahmins, hearts troubled and deeply afflicted, addressed him. They declared that all Brahminhood followed him, for he was ever devoted to the Brahmins. Even the sacred fires, borne on their shoulders, accompanied him. They pointed to the umbrellas, marks of the Vājapeya sacrifice, that followed behind like clouds after the rains. For Rāma, who now lacked an umbrella and was exposed to the sun’s rays, they offered to shade him with their sacrificial umbrellas. The resolve that had always guided them according to Vedic mantras, they said, now followed Rāma into the forest. The Vedas, their greatest wealth, would remain in their homes, as would their wives, protected by virtue. There was no need for further deliberation about his departure, for when Rāma was so devoted to righteousness, what else could they, who also walked the path of dharma, do? With humility, their heads bowed and hair white as swans, dusted by the earth, they beseeched Rāma to return. Many sacrifices performed by Brahmins awaited completion, and their fulfillment, they said, depended on his return. All beings, both moving and unmoving, were devoted to him; when they pleaded, he should show devotion to them in turn. Even the trees, unable to follow, seemed to cry out as the wind tore at their roots and lifted them, and the birds, motionless in their trees, beseeched Rāma, the compassionate one, to return. As the Brahmins cried out for his return, darkness seemed to descend, blocking Rāma’s path. Then Sumantra, the charioteer, released the weary horses from the chariot, quickly turned them, and led them—bodies soaked with water—near the darkness. Thus ends this portion of the sacred narrative, and the next sarga awaits to be heard.