As Rama’s chariot rolled swiftly toward the forest, the elders of Ayodhya, their hearts heavy with grief, called out to the horses, their voices trembling with urgency: “O swift horses carrying Rama, turn back! You must not go further. It is for your own good and your master’s.” They pleaded, reminding the noble animals that all creatures, especially horses, are attentive to human speech. “Having heard our request,” they urged, “you must turn back.” They spoke of Rama, their beloved prince—pure in spirit, righteous, heroic, unwavering in his noble vow. Such a master, they said, should be brought back to the city by his loyal steeds, not carried away into the wilderness. Their distress was evident as they cried out, and Rama, moved by their anguish, suddenly stepped down from the chariot. With Sita and Lakshmana at his side, Rama began to walk on foot, his steps close together, his mind intent on the path into the forest. His compassion would not allow him to leave these devoted Brahmins behind, and so, choosing righteousness over comfort, he continued onward, accompanied by his wife and brother. The Brahmins, troubled and deeply afflicted by Rama’s departure, spoke to him with sorrowful hearts. “All Brahminhood follows you, for you are devoted to us,” they declared. “Even the sacred fires we carry on our shoulders accompany you. See these umbrellas, risen from the Vājapeya sacrifices, following behind us like clouds after the rains. For you, scorched by the sun and lacking an umbrella, we will shade you with our own Vājapeya umbrellas.” They spoke of their resolve, always guided by Vedic mantras, now following Rama into the forest. “The Vedas, which dwell in our hearts and are our greatest wealth, will remain in our homes, as will our wives, protected by virtue,” they said. “There is no need for further deliberation regarding your departure; when you are devoted to righteousness, what remains for us who stand on the path of dharma?” With heads bowed, hair white as swans, their conduct humble and dusted by the earth, they begged Rama to return. “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 to you; when they beseech you, show devotion to the devoted.” Even the trees, their roots torn and driven by the wind, seemed to cry out as they were lifted by the breeze, unable to follow Rama. Birds, motionless in their trees, also seemed to beseech him, recognizing his compassion for all beings. As the Brahmins cried out for Rama’s return, a deep darkness descended, as if to block Raghava’s path. Sumantra, the charioteer, released the weary horses, turned them quickly, and led them—bodies soaked with water—near the edge of the darkness. Thus, the night came, and Rama, having settled with Sita and Lakshmana on the pleasant bank of the Tamasā river, looked at his companions. He spoke gently to Lakshmana: “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 weeping, with the animals and birds withdrawn into their shelters.” He thought of Ayodhya, his father’s royal capital, certain that the city would grieve for their departure, its men and women mourning deeply. “The people, devoted to the king for his many virtues, will mourn for you, for me, for Shatrughna and Bharata as well. I grieve for my father and my noble mother; may their eyes not become blind from weeping for us so often.” Yet Rama found comfort in Bharata’s righteousness. “Bharata, who is righteous at heart, will console my father and mother with words joined to duty, wealth, and desire. Reflecting again and again on Bharata’s compassion, I do not grieve for my parents.” He turned to Lakshmana: “O tiger among men, you have fulfilled your duty by following me; now you must assist in protecting Vaidehī. Tonight, Saumitri, I will sleep here by the water; this pleases me, even though there are many kinds of forest dwellings.” Then, addressing Sumantra, he said, “Be ever vigilant with the horses, O gentle one.” As the sun set, Sumantra tended to the horses, giving them abundant fodder and remaining close by. After performing the evening worship, the charioteer prepared Rama’s bed together with Lakshmana. Rama lay down on a bed of leaves by the Tamasā, with Sita and Lakshmana at his side. When Rama, weary from the day, fell asleep with his wife, Lakshmana began to recount Rama’s many virtues to Sumantra, his words filling the night air. As Saumitri stayed awake through the night, the sun rose, finding him still speaking of Rama’s greatness on the riverbank. On the distant bank of the Tamasā, crowded with herds of cattle, Rama spent the night with his companions. As dawn broke, the illustrious Rama rose and spoke to Lakshmana, who bore auspicious marks: “O Saumitri, see now those citizens, who, disregarding their own households, have attached themselves beneath the trees, caring only for us.” Thus, Rama’s journey into the forest began, marked by the devotion of his people, the sorrow of the Brahmins, and his own steadfast righteousness.