As evening descended upon the tranquil banks of the Tamasā river, Rāma turned to his faithful brother, Lakṣmaṇa—Saumitri—and said gently, “Tonight, Saumitri, I shall sleep here by the water. This place pleases me, though there are countless forest dwellings to choose from.” Having spoken thus, Rāma addressed Sumantra, the devoted charioteer: “Be ever vigilant with the horses, O gentle one.” Sumantra, attentive to his master’s command, restrained the horses as the sun dipped below the horizon. He provided them with abundant fodder, tending to their needs with care, and remained close by, watchful and ready. As night settled in, after performing the auspicious evening worship, Sumantra prepared a bed of leaves for Rāma, with Lakṣmaṇa’s help. Upon seeing this simple bed on the riverbank, covered with fresh leaves, Rāma lay down with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa by his side. Weary from the day’s journey, Rāma soon drifted into sleep, his beloved wife and loyal brother near him. As Rāma slept, Lakṣmaṇa remained awake, recounting to Sumantra the many virtues of Rāma—his nobility, his compassion, his truthfulness—filling the night with words of admiration and love. Throughout that long night, Saumitri kept vigil, speaking of Rāma’s greatness while the sun slowly rose, casting its light upon the bank of the Tamasā. On the distant bank, crowded with herds of cattle, Rāma spent the night with his companions, finding shelter in the wilderness. At dawn, the illustrious Rāma rose and, seeing his companions, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, who bore auspicious marks: “O Saumitri, look upon those citizens of Ayodhyā. Disregarding their own households, they have followed us here, sleeping beneath the trees, caring for nothing but our well-being. Such is their devotion that they would sooner give up their lives than abandon their resolve to be with us.” Rāma continued thoughtfully, “Only while they are still asleep can we swiftly ascend the chariot and travel our path without fear. Let the devoted citizens of Ikṣvāku’s city not awaken now, seeking shelter beneath the trees. It is for us, the princes, to free them from the sorrow caused by their own actions, not to deepen their suffering.” Lakṣmaṇa, ever righteous, agreed: “I concur, wise one. Let us quickly ascend the chariot.” At Rāma’s command, he instructed the charioteer, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” Sumantra, moving with haste, yoked the excellent horses to the chariot 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, and together with Sumantra, they crossed the swift-flowing, swirling Tamasā river. Once across, Rāma, the mighty-armed and illustrious one, found a great and safe road, free from thorns, though it was fearful to those who lacked courage. Then, to mislead the citizens and protect them from further sorrow, Rāma instructed Sumantra: “Turn the chariot northward, O charioteer, and proceed. After driving swiftly for a while, turn the chariot back again, so that the citizens may not know my path. Do this with care.” Sumantra, understanding Rāma’s intention, did as he was told. After a while, he returned and reported the chariot’s readiness. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, with Sītā, mounted once more, and Sumantra urged the horses along the path toward the hermitage. Thus, the mighty son of Daśaratha set out for the forest, chariot facing north, seeing auspicious omens for the journey ahead. As a new sarga began in the glorious Valmiki Rāmāyaṇa, the night passed, and the citizens of Ayodhyā awoke. Bereft of Rāma, they became motionless with grief, their hearts broken. Overwhelmed by tears and sorrow, they gazed again and again, but could not catch sight of Rāma. Faces stricken with grief, deprived of their wise and compassionate protector, they lamented: “Fie upon that sleep which steals away the mind! Today we cannot see Rāma, broad-chested and mighty-armed. How has Rāma, ever true to his word, abandoned his devoted people and gone away as an ascetic? He who always protected us like a father his sons—how has that foremost of the Raghu lineage left us and gone to the forest?” Despair filled their hearts. “Let us meet our end here itself, or undertake the great departure; what purpose is there in living, deprived of Rāma? There are dry woods in abundance; let us all kindle a funeral pyre and enter it, or else—what shall we say to the mighty-armed, unresentful, sweet-spoken one? How can we bear to say, ‘Rāghava was led away by us’?” They mourned the fate of their beloved city: “Surely Ayodhyā will be forlorn, seeing us return without Rāghava; it will become joyless, filled only with women, children, and the aged. Having departed with that heroic, noble-souled one, and now bereft of him, how shall we again behold that city?” Raising their arms in anguish, the people uttered many such words, lamenting like cows bereft of their calves. Following the path a little further, they were soon overwhelmed by great despair, for they lost the way. Tracing the faint marks of the chariot, those thoughtful ones turned back, bewildered and sorrowful, saying, “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” Thus, in their grief and confusion, the citizens mourned the loss of Rāma, while he, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, journeyed deeper into the forest, fulfilling his vow and protecting his people even in his departure.