Hearing the gentle and comforting words spoken by Lakshmana’s mother to Kausalya, the mother of Rama, a remarkable change came over the queen. The heavy burden of her grief lifted from her heart, vanishing swiftly and completely, just as an autumn rain cloud, emptied of its water, disappears from the sky. Thus, the forty-fourth sarga of the Ayodhya Kanda in the glorious Ramayana, composed by the sage Valmiki, comes to a close. Now, let us listen to the forty-fifth sarga. As Rama, the great-souled and truly valiant prince, departed for the forest, the people of Ayodhya, devoted to him with all their hearts, followed behind. Though King Dasaratha, their beloved protector, had already turned back—bound by duty and sorrow—the citizens could not bring themselves to leave Rama’s side. They continued to follow his chariot, drawn by love and loyalty. To the people of Ayodhya, Rama, renowned for his virtues, was as dear to them as the full moon is to the night sky. Even as they pleaded with him to stay, Rama, upholding his father’s word and the truth of his lineage, pressed onward toward the forest. Turning to behold the citizens who walked after him, Rama’s gaze was full of affection, as if he wished to drink in their presence with his eyes. With a voice as tender as a father’s to his children, Rama spoke warmly to the people, “The love and respect you bear for me—let that, for my sake, be shown especially to Bharata. He, the noble son of Kaikeyi, will do for you all that is dear and beneficial. Though young in years, he is mature in wisdom, gentle, and heroic. He will be a fitting lord, removing your fears. Bharata is endowed with royal qualities and has been chosen as heir-apparent; therefore, as I and the elders have instructed, you must obey your new lord’s commands. Just as the king should not grieve for me during my forest exile, so too, for my sake, you must act for his happiness.” The more Dasaratha clung to righteousness, the more the people yearned for Rama as their lord. Tears clouded their eyes as they watched Rama, joined by Saumitri (Lakshmana), seeming to draw the hearts of the townspeople to himself by the sheer force of his virtues, as if they were bound to him by invisible cords. Then, the elders among the twice-born—learned Brahmins advanced in age and vigor, their heads trembling with the weight of years—spoke out from a distance, calling to Rama’s swift horses, “Turn back, O noble steeds! Go no further, for your own good and your master’s. All creatures, especially horses, are attentive to speech; having heard our plea, you must turn back. Your master, pure in spirit, righteous, and heroic, should be brought back to the city by you—not carried away to the forest.” Seeing these elders, distressed and uttering anguished words, Rama was moved. He immediately descended from the chariot. With Sita and Lakshmana by his side, Rama continued on foot, his steps close together, resolute in his journey toward the forest. Out of compassion, he could not bear to leave the Brahmins behind while he rode in the chariot. As Rama walked away, the Brahmins, deeply troubled and afflicted, called out to him, “All Brahminhood follows you, for you are devoted to Brahmins; even the sacred fires we carry on our shoulders will accompany you. See these umbrellas, born from Vājapeya sacrifices, trailing behind us like clouds after the rains. For you, scorched by the sun and lacking shade, we will provide shelter with our own Vājapeya umbrellas. The resolve that guided us through 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 also walk the path of dharma?” With heads bowed, white as swans, and their conduct humble, the Brahmins pleaded, “We beseech you to return. Many sacrifices performed by Brahmins here await completion; their fulfillment depends on your return. All beings here, moving and unmoving, are devoted to you; when they beseech you, show devotion to the devoted. Unable to follow you, the trees—uprooted and driven by the wind—seem to cry out as they are lifted by the breeze. Even the birds, motionless in their trees, fixed and silent, seem to beseech you, O compassionate one.” As the Brahmins cried out for Rama’s return, a darkness descended, as if to block the path of Raghava. Sumantra, the charioteer, seeing the weariness of the horses, quickly released them, turned them about, and led them—bodies soaked with water—toward the edge of the darkness. Let us now listen to the forty-sixth chapter. Rama, having settled on the pleasant bank of the Tamasa River, looked at Sita and spoke gently to Saumitri, “This is our first night, Saumitri, sent into the forest. May your dwelling here be auspicious, and do not let your heart be troubled. See how the forests lie empty all around, as if they are weeping, with the animals and birds withdrawn into their shelters.” Thus, the journey of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana into the forest began, embraced by the devotion of their people and the silent sorrow of the land they left behind.