After speaking with his devoted brother Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, turned to Sumantra, his gentle and faithful charioteer. “Be ever vigilant with the horses, O gentle one,” he instructed, his voice both kind and resolute. Sumantra, attentive to Rāma’s wishes, restrained the horses as the sun dipped below the horizon. He gave them abundant fodder, ensuring their well-being, and remained close by, ever watchful. As evening settled, Rāma and his companions performed the auspicious twilight rites, offering prayers as the night descended. When the sacred rituals were complete, Sumantra, ever dutiful, prepared a resting place for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa on the riverbank, covering the bed with fresh leaves. There, on the tranquil bank of the Tamasā, Rāma lay down with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa by his side. Weary from their journey, Rāma soon fell into slumber, his beloved wife beside him. Lakṣmaṇa, however, remained awake, his heart filled with thoughts of his brother. Throughout the night, he spoke softly to Sumantra, recounting the countless virtues of Rāma, keeping vigil as the stars wheeled overhead. As dawn approached and the first light touched the sky, Lakṣmaṇa continued to speak of Rāma’s greatness, the two men keeping company on the river’s edge. On the far side of the Tamasā, where herds of cattle grazed, Rāma and his companions spent the night. When morning broke, the illustrious Rāma rose and, seeing his companions, turned to Lakṣmaṇa, whose features bore auspicious marks. “O Saumitri,” he said, “see how these citizens, disregarding their own households, have followed us here, resting beneath the trees out of devotion for us. Such is their resolve that they would sooner give up their lives than abandon us.” Rāma’s heart was full of compassion. “Only while they are still asleep can we ascend the chariot and travel onward without fear. Let the devoted citizens of Ikṣvāku’s city not remain sleeping here beneath the trees. It is our duty to free them from the sorrow their devotion has brought, but we must not cause them further suffering by our presence.” Lakṣmaṇa, standing there like righteousness itself, replied, “I agree, wise one; let us quickly ascend the chariot.” Rāma then instructed Sumantra, “Quickly yoke the chariot. I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” Sumantra hastened to yoke the noble horses and, with palms joined, 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, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, mounted the chariot. Sumantra drove them across the swift-flowing, swirling Tamasā river. On the other side, the mighty-armed Rāma reached a broad and safe road, free from thorns—a path that would daunt the fearful. Intent on protecting the citizens from further sorrow, Rāma spoke to Sumantra, “To mislead the citizens, 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 did as he was told, and, returning, reported the chariot to Rāma. Then Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, with Sītā, again mounted the ready chariot, and Sumantra urged the horses along the path leading to the hermitages. With auspicious omens for their journey, the mighty son of Daśaratha set out for the forest, the chariot now facing north. Meanwhile, as the night passed and dawn broke, the citizens who had followed Rāma awoke. Bereft of his presence, they were motionless with grief, their hearts shattered. Tears welled up in their eyes as they searched again and again for a glimpse of Rāma, but he was nowhere to be seen. Their faces were stricken, and, deprived of that wise and compassionate prince, they lamented aloud. “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 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, or undertake the great departure; what purpose is there in living, deprived of Rāma? There are dry woods in abundance—let us 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 for Ayodhyā, now 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, they cried out in distress, lamenting like cows bereft of their calves. Following the marks of the chariot for a while, they soon lost the way and were overcome by despair. Bewildered, they said, “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” With heavy hearts, they turned back by the same route, returning to Ayodhyā, a city now filled with sorrow and troubled souls.