As evening descended upon the pleasant banks of the Tamasā river, Rāghava—Rāma—having settled with Sītā and his brother Lakṣmaṇa, turned to Saumitri and spoke gently. “This is our first night, Saumitri, sent into the forest,” he said. “May your dwelling here be auspicious, and do not let your heart be troubled.” He observed how the forests around them lay empty, as if mourning, with the animals and birds withdrawn into their shelters. Rāma’s thoughts turned to Ayodhyā, his father’s royal city. “Today, Ayodhyā will surely grieve for us who have departed,” he said, “with its men and women mourning. The people, deeply devoted to the king for his many virtues, will also lament for you, for me, and for Śatrughna and Bharata.” He felt sorrow for his father and his noble mother, praying they would not become blind from weeping for their sons. Yet Rāma found comfort in Bharata. “Bharata, righteous at heart, will soothe our parents with words joined to duty, wealth, and desire. Reflecting again and again on Bharata’s compassion, O mighty-armed one, I do not grieve for my father or mother.” He then praised Lakṣmaṇa’s loyalty. “You have fulfilled your duty by following me; now you must help protect Vaidehī.” That night, Rāma chose to sleep by the water’s edge, despite the many kinds of forest dwellings. After speaking thus to Saumitri, he addressed Sumantra, the charioteer: “Be ever vigilant with the horses, O gentle one.” Sumantra, restraining the horses as the sun set, gave them abundant fodder and stayed close by. When night had fully arrived, and after performing the auspicious evening worship, Sumantra prepared Rāma’s bed together with Saumitri. The bed, covered with leaves, lay on the riverbank. Rāma lay down there with Sītā and Saumitri, weary from the day’s journey. As Rāma slept, Lakṣmaṇa stayed awake, recounting Rāma’s many virtues to Sumantra. Through the night, Saumitri remained vigilant, speaking of Rāma’s goodness as the sun rose over the Tamasā. On the distant bank, crowded with herds of cattle, Rāma spent the night with his companions. At dawn, the illustrious Rāma rose and 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. Just as they observe their vow in not turning back from us, so too, they would sooner give up their lives than abandon their resolve.” Rāma realized that the only way to spare the townspeople further sorrow was to depart while they still slept. “Only while they are asleep can we swiftly ascend the chariot and travel the path without fear. Let the devoted citizens of Ikshvaku’s city not continue to sleep now, seeking shelter beneath the trees. They must be freed from sorrow caused by their own actions, but not made to suffer further by us.” Lakṣmaṇa agreed. “Let us quickly ascend the chariot, wise one.” Rāma then told Sumantra, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here.” Sumantra hastened, yoking the excellent horses, and 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.” Mounting the chariot with his attendants, Rāghava crossed the swift-flowing Tamasā river with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. Once across, Rāma reached a great, safe road, free from thorns, which was fearful only to those who feared. To mislead the citizens and spare them further distress, Rāma instructed Sumantra, “Turn the chariot northward, and proceed. After driving swiftly for a while, turn back again, so that the citizens may not know my path; do this with care.” Sumantra obeyed, and after returning, reported to Rāma. Then, those two scions of Raghu, with Sītā, mounted the chariot, and Sumantra urged the horses along the path toward the hermitage. The mighty Dasarathi, seeing auspicious omens, set out for the forest, the chariot facing north. Meanwhile, as the night passed, the citizens who had followed Rāma awoke, bereft of him. Grief stilled their bodies and broke their hearts. Overwhelmed by tears born of sorrow, they gazed again and again, unable to catch sight of Rāma. Their faces were stricken with grief, deprived of the wise one, and the compassionate and learned among them spoke words of lamentation. “Fie upon that sleep which steals away the mind! Today we cannot see Rāma, broad-chested and mighty-armed.” Thus, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa continued their journey, leaving behind a city and people whose hearts mourned their absence.