As evening descended upon the tranquil banks of the Tamasā river, Rāghava—Rāma—found a pleasant spot and, gazing at Sītā, 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 let not your heart be troubled.” He pointed out the emptiness of the surrounding forests, noting how the animals and birds had retreated into their shelters, as if the woods themselves were weeping. Rāma’s thoughts turned to Ayodhyā, his father’s royal city. He reflected aloud, “Tonight, Ayodhyā will surely grieve for us who have departed, with its men and women mourning.” He spoke of the people’s deep devotion to King Daśaratha and their sorrow for himself, Lakṣmaṇa, Śatrughna, and Bharata. Rāma’s heart ached for his father and noble mother, fearing their eyes might grow blind from weeping for their exiled sons. Yet, he found comfort in Bharata’s righteousness. “Bharata, who is compassionate and dutiful, will console our parents with words rooted in duty, wealth, and desire,” Rāma said. Reflecting on Bharata’s nature, he told Lakṣmaṇa, “Because of Bharata’s compassion, I do not grieve for our parents.” He then praised Lakṣmaṇa for fulfilling his duty by following him, and urged him to help protect Vaidehī, Sītā. Rāma decided to sleep by the water that night, finding pleasure in the simple forest dwelling. After speaking thus, he addressed Sumantra, the charioteer: “Be ever vigilant with the horses, gentle one.” Sumantra tended to the horses, feeding them well and staying close by as the sun set. When night came, Sumantra prepared Rāma’s bed with Lakṣmaṇa, laying it with leaves on the riverbank. Rāma lay down with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, weary from the day’s journey. As Rāma drifted into sleep, Lakṣmaṇa stayed awake, recounting Rāma’s many virtues to Sumantra, the charioteer. Throughout the night, as the sun rose, Saumitri spoke of Rāma’s qualities, keeping vigil by the Tamasā. On the far bank, where herds of cattle grazed, Rāma spent the night with his companions. At dawn, the illustrious Rāma rose and, seeing his companions, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, who bore auspicious marks. “Saumitri, see how the citizens of Ayodhyā, disregarding their own homes, have followed us and now rest beneath the trees, caring only for us. Their resolve is so strong, they would sooner give up their lives than abandon us.” Rāma realized they must depart before the townspeople awoke. “Only while they sleep can we swiftly ascend the chariot and travel without fear. Let them not continue to suffer on our account.” He wished to spare them further sorrow, knowing their devotion had already caused them pain. Lakṣmaṇa agreed, urging haste. Rāma then told Sumantra, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly, Sumantra.” The charioteer readied the chariot with excellent horses and, with joined palms, reported to Rāma: “Your chariot is ready, mighty prince. Ascend quickly with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. May all be well.” Mounting the chariot with his attendants, Rāma crossed the swift-flowing Tamasā river with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. On the other side, he reached a great, safe road, free from thorns and dangers. To mislead the citizens, Rāma instructed Sumantra to turn the chariot northward, then, after driving swiftly, to circle back, so their path would remain unknown. Sumantra did as Rāma commanded, returning to report the chariot’s readiness. Then, the two sons of Raghu, with Sītā, mounted the chariot, and Sumantra drove them along the path toward the hermitage. Seeing auspicious omens, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, set out for the forest with Sumantra guiding the way. As the forty-seventh sarga begins in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda, the story shifts to the citizens of Ayodhyā. When the night had passed, those who had followed Rāma awoke, bereft of him. Motionless with grief, their hearts broken, they searched again and again, overwhelmed by tears, but could not catch sight of Rāma. Their faces stricken with sorrow, deprived of the wise prince, 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. How has Rāma, great-armed and ever true to his word, abandoned his devoted people and gone away as an ascetic?” The pain of separation filled the air, as Ayodhyā’s citizens mourned the departure of their beloved prince.