As the sun set and darkness gathered, Sumantra, the faithful charioteer, released the weary horses from the chariot. He led them swiftly to the water, their bodies soaked and refreshed, and settled them near the shadowy banks, preparing for the night ahead. On the pleasant bank of the Tamasā river, Rāghava—Rāma—turned to Sītā and spoke gently to his brother, Saumitri, Lakṣmaṇa. “This is our first night in the forest, Saumitri,” he said. “May your dwelling here be auspicious, and do not let your heart be troubled.” He gestured to the empty forests all around, silent and forlorn, as if they too were grieving; the animals and birds had withdrawn into their shelters. Rāma’s thoughts turned to Ayodhyā, his father’s royal city. “Today, the city will surely mourn our departure,” he said, “its men and women grieving for us. The people, devoted to the king for his many virtues, will also lament for you, for me, and for Śatrughna and Bharata.” His heart ached for his father and noble mother. “May they not become blind from weeping for us so often,” he murmured. But he took comfort in Bharata’s righteousness. “Bharata will console our parents 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.” He looked at Lakṣmaṇa with gratitude. “You have fulfilled your duty by following me. Now you must help protect Vaidehī, Sītā. Tonight, Saumitri, I will sleep here by the water; this pleases me, though there are many kinds of forest dwellings.” After these words, Rāma addressed Sumantra: “Be ever vigilant with the horses, gentle one.” As the sun vanished, Sumantra restrained the horses, fed them plentiful fodder, and remained close by. Evening worship was performed, and when night had fully descended, Sumantra prepared Rāma’s bed, together with Saumitri. Upon the riverbank, a bed covered with leaves awaited them. Rāma lay down there, weary, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa by his side. As he slept, Lakṣmaṇa stayed awake, recounting Rāma’s virtues to Sumantra through the night. The sun rose, and Lakṣmaṇa continued to speak of his brother’s greatness on the riverbank. On the distant bank of the Tamasā, crowded with herds of cattle, Rāma spent the night with his companions. When dawn came, the illustrious Rāma rose and addressed Lakṣmaṇa, whose body bore auspicious marks. “Saumitri, see those citizens, who, disregarding their own homes, have gathered beneath the trees out of concern for us. Their resolve is unwavering; they would sooner give up their lives than abandon us.” He continued, “Only while they still sleep can we quickly ascend the chariot and travel the path without fear. Let the devoted citizens of Ikshvaku’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, but they should not suffer further by ours.” Lakṣmaṇa, standing like righteousness itself, agreed. “Let us quickly ascend the chariot, wise one.” Rāma then called to Sumantra, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly, O Sumantra.” Sumantra hurried, yoking the 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.” Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa mounted the chariot with Sumantra. They crossed the swift-flowing, swirling Tamasā river, reaching a safe and thornless road, one that was fearful only to those who knew fear. To mislead the citizens, Rāma instructed Sumantra, “Turn the chariot northward, and proceed. After driving swiftly for a while, turn back again, so the citizens may not know my path; do this with care.” Sumantra obeyed, and, after turning the chariot, reported back to Rāma. Then the two scions of Raghu, with Sītā, mounted the chariot, and Sumantra urged the horses along the path to the hermitage. Rāma, mighty Dasarathi, set out for the forest, with auspicious omens guiding their journey, the chariot facing north. When the night had passed, the citizens—bereft of Rāma—awoke. Motionless with grief, their hearts broken, they gazed again and again, overwhelmed by tears born of sorrow. Unable even to catch sight of Rāma, their faces stricken and deprived of the wise one, the compassionate and learned among them spoke words of lamentation.