As night settled upon the banks of the Tamasa, Rama, the tiger among men, turned to his devoted brother Lakshmana and spoke with gentle firmness. “You have fulfilled your duty by following me, but now you must help protect Vaidehi,” he said, entrusting Sita’s safety to him. Rama then declared his intention to sleep by the water that night, finding peace in its presence despite the many kinds of forest dwellings that surrounded them. Having spoken thus, Rama addressed Sumantra, the wise charioteer, urging him to remain vigilant with the horses. Sumantra, attentive to his master’s command, restrained the steeds as the sun sank below the horizon, providing them with ample fodder and staying close by their side. As darkness deepened, Sumantra performed the auspicious evening worship and, recognizing the arrival of night, prepared Rama’s bed with Lakshmana’s help. They laid out a simple resting place, covered with leaves, on the riverbank. Rama, weary from the day’s journey, lay down there with Sita and Lakshmana. When Rama, exhausted, finally drifted into sleep beside his beloved wife, Lakshmana remained awake. Through the night, he spoke softly to Sumantra, recounting Rama’s many virtues, his mind filled with admiration and devotion. As Saumitri kept watch, the sun eventually rose, and he continued to speak of Rama’s greatness while seated on the banks of the Tamasa. On the far side of the river, among herds of cattle, Rama spent the night with his companions. At dawn, the illustrious Rama rose and, seeing his companions gathered, spoke to Lakshmana, who bore auspicious marks. “O Saumitri, look at these citizens who have left their own homes and now rest under the trees, caring only for us,” he observed, moved by their devotion. He remarked that the townspeople were steadfast in their vow, unwilling to turn back from him, and that they would sooner give up their lives than abandon their resolve. Rama realized that only while the citizens were still asleep could he and his companions depart swiftly and without fear. He wished that the devoted people of Ikshvaku’s city would not continue to sleep beneath the trees, seeking shelter as they followed him. Rama’s heart was full of compassion; he wanted to free the townspeople from the sorrow caused by their own actions, but did not wish to cause them further suffering by his own departure. Lakshmana, standing by Rama like righteousness itself, agreed: “Wise one, let us quickly ascend the chariot.” Rama then instructed Sumantra, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” The charioteer hastened to prepare the chariot, harnessing the excellent horses, and with joined palms, reported to Rama, “Here is your chariot, mighty-armed prince, best among warriors, yoked and ready. Ascend quickly, with Sita and Lakshmana. May all be well with you.” Mounting the chariot with his attendants, Rama crossed the swift-flowing, swirling Tamasa river with Sita and Lakshmana. Once across, the illustrious, mighty-armed prince reached a great, safe road, free from thorns, a path that was fearful only to those who harbored fear. To mislead the citizens and spare them further pain, Rama instructed Sumantra to turn the chariot northward and proceed. After driving swiftly for a while, Sumantra was told to turn the chariot back again, so the citizens would not discern Rama’s true path. Sumantra carried out Rama’s instructions with care and, returning, reported the chariot ready. Once again, Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita mounted the chariot, and Sumantra urged the horses along the path toward the hermitage. The mighty Dasarathi, accompanied by his charioteer, set out for the forest, guiding the chariot northward, and witnessed auspicious omens for their journey. Now begins the forty-seventh sarga in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhya Kanda. When the night had passed, the citizens who had followed Rama awoke, bereft of their beloved prince. Grief rendered them motionless, their hearts broken. Overwhelmed by tears born of sorrow, they gazed again and again, but could not catch sight of Rama. Their faces were stricken with grief, deprived of the wise one. The compassionate and learned among them spoke words of lamentation, cursing the sleep that had stolen away their minds and left them unable to see Rama, broad-chested and mighty-armed. “How has Rama, great-armed and ever true to his word, abandoned his devoted people and gone away as an ascetic?” they cried. “He who always protected us like a father his own sons—how has that foremost of the Raghu lineage left us and gone to the forest?” Despair overwhelmed them. “Let us meet our end here itself, or undertake the great departure; what purpose is there in living, deprived of Rama?” they lamented. “There are dry woods in abundance, large and plentiful; let us kindle a funeral pyre and enter it, or else—” They wondered what they could possibly say to the mighty-armed, unresentful, sweet-spoken Rama. How could they bear to admit, “Raghava was led away by us”? They pictured their city, Ayodhya, becoming forlorn and joyless, filled only with women, children, and the aged, bereft of Rama’s presence. Having departed with the heroic, noble-souled prince, they questioned how they could ever return and behold Ayodhya again. Raising their arms in anguish, the people uttered many such words, lamenting in distress like cows bereft of their calves. Then, following the path, they proceeded a little further, but soon were overwhelmed by great despair, having lost their way and, above all, lost Rama.