As the sun set on their first day of exile, Rāma’s heart turned toward Ayodhyā, his father’s beloved city. He spoke gently, his voice tinged with sorrow, “Surely, Ayodhyā will grieve for us tonight—its men and women, all its people, will be plunged into mourning as we depart. There is no doubt.” He knew how deeply the citizens loved their king, bound to him by his many virtues, and how their sorrow would extend to himself, to Sītā, to Lakṣmaṇa, and even to Bharata and Śatrughna. Rāma’s thoughts turned to his parents, and a shadow crossed his face. “I grieve for my father and my noble mother,” he said softly. “May they not lose their sight from the tears they will shed for us, night after night.” Yet, even in his worry, he found comfort in Bharata’s character. “Bharata, who is ever righteous, will surely console our parents with words rooted in duty, prosperity, and love. When I remember Bharata’s compassion and steadfastness, my heart is eased—I do not fear for our father or mother.” Turning to Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma spoke with affection and gravity. “O tiger among men, you have fulfilled your duty by choosing to follow me. Now, you must also help protect Vaidehī, our Sītā.” As night deepened, Rāma chose a place by the water to rest. “Tonight, Saumitri, I will sleep here by the riverside. This pleases me, though there are many forest dwellings to choose from.” Having spoken thus, Rāma addressed Sumantra, the loyal charioteer. “Be ever vigilant with the horses, gentle one.” Sumantra, attentive to his master’s words, restrained the horses as the sun disappeared, fed them generously, and remained close by, watchful. When the auspicious hour for evening worship arrived, Sumantra performed the rites and, seeing that night had fallen, prepared a bed of leaves for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. On the riverbank, covered by soft foliage, Rāma lay down with Sītā and Saumitri by his side. Weary from the day’s journey, Rāma soon fell into sleep, Sītā nestled close. Lakṣmaṇa, however, remained awake, his heart full. Through the night, as the river flowed quietly and darkness wrapped them, Lakṣmaṇa spoke to Sumantra, recounting Rāma’s many virtues—his strength, his kindness, his unwavering righteousness. Night passed, and as the first light of dawn touched the sky, Lakṣmaṇa was still awake, keeping vigil and speaking of Rāma’s greatness on the banks of the Tamasā. On the distant shore, herds of cattle wandered, and Rāma, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, spent the night there, sheltered by the vastness of the forest. At sunrise, Rāma awoke and looked upon his companions. He turned to Lakṣmaṇa, whose very presence radiated auspiciousness. “Saumitri, look—see how the citizens of Ayodhyā, disregarding their own homes, have followed us here. They sleep beneath the trees, thinking only of us.” Rāma’s heart was moved by their devotion. “Just as they refuse to turn back from us, so too would they sooner give up their lives than abandon their resolve.” Rāma considered how to spare them further pain. “Only while they are still asleep can we quietly ascend the chariot and continue our journey without fear. Let us not allow these loyal citizens of Ikshvaku’s city to wake and follow us deeper into the forest. They must be freed from the sorrow caused by their own devotion, and we must not add to their suffering.” Lakṣmaṇa, ever dutiful, agreed at once. “I agree, wise one. Let us quickly ascend the chariot.” Rāma then called to Sumantra, “Quickly yoke the chariot. I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” Sumantra, swift and skillful, yoked the excellent horses, and with palms joined in respect, announced 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.” With his companions, Rāma mounted the chariot and crossed the swift-flowing, swirling Tamasā river. On the far bank, the illustrious, mighty-armed prince found a broad, safe road, free from thorns and dangers—fearful only to those who are fearful themselves. To protect the citizens from further anguish and to mislead any who might try to follow, Rāma instructed Sumantra, “Turn the chariot northward, O charioteer, and proceed. After traveling swiftly for a while, turn back again, so the citizens will not discern our path. Do this carefully.” Sumantra obeyed, skillfully guiding the horses and returning as instructed, reporting all to Rāma. Then, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, with Sītā, mounted the chariot once more, and Sumantra urged the horses along the path leading to the hermitage. With auspicious omens to guide their way, the mighty son of Daśaratha set out for the forest, his heart steady and resolute. Thus begins the forty-seventh sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When the night had passed and dawn broke, the citizens—now bereft of Rāma—awoke. Motionless with grief, their hearts broken, they gazed again and again toward the path he had taken, but could not catch even a glimpse of Rāma. Tears born of sorrow overwhelmed them, and their faces were stricken with loss. The compassionate and wise among them spoke words of lamentation. “Fie upon that sleep which steals away our minds!” they cried. “Today, we cannot see Rāma, broad-chested and mighty-armed. How has Rāma, true to his word and great of arm, abandoned his devoted people and gone away as an ascetic? He who always protected us, as a father protects his sons—how has that foremost of the Raghu lineage left us for the forest?” Despair gripped their hearts. “Let us meet our end here itself, or undertake the great departure. What purpose remains in living, deprived of Rāma? There are plenty of dry woods here—let us all together build a funeral pyre and enter it, or else—” So the people of Ayodhyā, overwhelmed by love and sorrow, lamented the loss of their beloved prince, their hearts yearning for his return even as he journeyed deeper into the unknown forest.