The Brahmins, their hearts filled with the Vedas—their greatest treasure—spoke with reverence and concern. “The Vedas will remain in our homes, as will our wives, protected by virtue,” they assured Rāma, their words gentle yet earnest. “There is no need for further deliberation about your departure. You are steadfast in righteousness; what more can we, who also walk the path of dharma, say or do?” With deep humility, they bowed their heads—hair white as swans, their conduct marked by dust and devotion—and pleaded, “We beseech you to return. Many sacrifices begun by Brahmins here remain unfinished; their completion 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.” The Brahmins pointed to the very trees, saying, “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. Even the birds, motionless in their trees, abstaining from food and flight, beseech you, compassionate one.” Their cries for Rāma’s return filled the air, and as they called out, darkness seemed to descend, blocking the path of Rāghava. At that moment, Sumantra, the faithful charioteer, released the weary horses from the chariot, turned them quickly, and led them—bodies soaked with water—near the edge of the darkness. As the forty-sixth chapter unfolds, Rāghava, having settled with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa on the pleasant bank of the Tamasā river, gazed at his beloved Sītā and spoke gently to Saumitri, his brother Lakṣmaṇa. “This is our first night in the forest, Saumitri. May your forest dwelling be auspicious, and may your heart remain undisturbed.” He looked around and observed, “See how the forests lie empty all around, as if they are weeping. The animals and birds have withdrawn into their shelters.” Rāma’s thoughts turned to Ayodhyā, his father’s royal city. “Today, the city will surely grieve for us who have departed, with its men and women lamenting—there is no doubt. The people, deeply devoted to the king for his many virtues, will mourn for you, for me, for Śatrughna, and for Bharata alike.” A shadow of sorrow crossed his face as he added, “I grieve for my father and my noble mother; may they not become blind from weeping for us so often. Yet, Bharata, who is righteous at heart, will surely comfort them with words rooted in duty, wealth, and desire. Reflecting again and again on Bharata’s compassion, O mighty-armed one, I do not grieve for my father or my mother.” Turning to Lakṣmaṇa, he said, “O tiger among men, you have fulfilled your duty by following me. Now you must assist in protecting Vaidehī.” Rāma then declared, “Tonight, Saumitri, I will sleep here by the water; this pleases me, even though there are many kinds of forest dwellings.” Having spoken thus to Saumitri, Rāghava addressed Sumantra: “Be ever vigilant with the horses, O gentle one.” Sumantra, attentive to his charge, restrained the horses as the sun set, fed them abundantly, and remained close by. As night fell, after performing the auspicious evening worship, the charioteer prepared Rāma’s bed together with Saumitri. On the bank of the Tamasā, covered with leaves, Rāma lay down with Sītā and Saumitri. When Rāma, weary from the day, slept with his wife, Lakṣmaṇa stayed awake, recounting Rāma’s many virtues to Sumantra through the night. As the sun rose, Lakṣmaṇa continued to speak, his words honoring Rāma on the riverbank. On the distant bank of the Tamasā, crowded with herds of cattle, Rāma and his companions spent that first night. At dawn, the illustrious Rāma rose and, seeing his companions, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, who bore auspicious marks. “O Saumitri, see those citizens who, disregarding their own households, have attached themselves beneath the trees, caring only for us. Such is their devotion that they would sooner give up their lives than abandon their resolve.” He continued, “Only while they are still asleep can we swiftly ascend the chariot and travel the path without fear. Let the devoted citizens of Ikṣvāku’s city not continue to sleep here, seeking shelter beneath the trees. The townspeople must be freed from the sorrow caused by their own actions by the princes, but they should not be made to suffer further by us.” Lakṣmaṇa, standing tall and righteous, replied, “I agree, wise one; let us quickly ascend the chariot.” Rāma then instructed Sumantra, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” The charioteer, hastening, yoked the chariot with those excellent horses and, with joined palms, reported to Rāma, “Here is your chariot, mighty-armed prince, best among warriors, yoked and ready. Ascend quickly, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. May all be well with you.” Rāghava mounted the chariot with his attendants, and together with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, crossed the swift-flowing, swirling Tamasā river. Having crossed, the illustrious, mighty-armed one reached the great, safe road, free from thorns—a road that is fearful only to those who fear. Then, to mislead the citizens who might follow, Rāma spoke to Sumantra, “Turn the chariot northward, O charioteer, and proceed.” Thus, with compassion for his people and steadfastness in dharma, Rāma journeyed onward into the forest.