As the sun set along the banks of the Tamasā river, Rāma prepared a simple bed of leaves beneath the open sky. There, with Sītā by his side and his devoted brother Lakṣmaṇa close, he lay down to rest. Fatigued by the day’s journey and the heavy weight of exile, Rāma soon drifted into sleep, Sītā nestled beside him. Lakṣmaṇa, however, remained awake, his mind too alert for slumber. Through the quiet hours of the night, he sat with the charioteer, Sumantra, recounting with deep affection the many virtues and noble qualities of Rāma. The gentle murmur of Lakṣmaṇa’s words mingled with the sounds of the river, and as the night wore on, the sun began to rise, casting its first light on the weary travelers. On the far bank of the Tamasā, where herds of cattle grazed and the land was peaceful, Rāma and his companions spent the night, watched over by Lakṣmaṇa’s vigilant care. When dawn broke, Rāma awoke and looked upon his companions. He turned to Lakṣmaṇa, who stood before him, marked by auspicious signs, and spoke with gentle concern: “O Saumitri, see how the citizens of Ayodhyā have followed us, forsaking their own homes and comforts. They sleep beneath the trees, caring only for us.” Rāma’s heart was moved by their devotion. “Just as these townspeople have resolved not to turn back, so too would they sooner give up their lives than abandon their purpose. We must depart while they are still asleep, swiftly ascending the chariot and continuing on our path before they awaken. Let us not cause them further suffering; it is the duty of princes to free their people from sorrow, not deepen it.” Lakṣmaṇa, standing tall and righteous, agreed: “Indeed, wise one, let us go at once.” Rāma then called to Sumantra, the charioteer: “Quickly yoke the chariot, for I must go to the forest. Drive swiftly, O Sumantra.” Sumantra, ever obedient, hurried to prepare the chariot, harnessing the noble horses and then, with hands joined in respect, reported to Rāma: “Your chariot is ready, O mighty-armed prince, best among warriors. Ascend with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. May all be well with you.” Rāma, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, mounted the chariot. With Sumantra guiding the reins, they crossed the swirling, swift-flowing Tamasā river and reached a great road—broad and safe, yet daunting to the faint-hearted. Wishing to spare the citizens further grief and to mislead any who might follow, Rāma instructed Sumantra: “Turn the chariot northward and proceed. After a while, turn back again, so the citizens will not know which path we have taken. Do this with care.” Sumantra followed Rāma’s instructions faithfully, turning the chariot as directed and then reporting back to Rāma. The two sons of Raghu, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, with Sītā, resumed their journey, the charioteer urging the horses along the forest path toward the hermitage. With auspicious omens shining on their departure, the mighty Rāma, son of Daśaratha, set out for the forest, his heart resolute. Meanwhile, as the forty-seventh chapter of this sacred tale begins, the citizens who had followed Rāma awoke to a cruel dawn. Realizing that Rāma was gone, they were frozen in grief, their hearts shattered. Tears flowed as they searched in vain, gazing again and again for even a glimpse of Rāma, but he was nowhere to be seen. Faces stricken with sorrow, the wise and compassionate among them spoke in anguish: “Fie upon this sleep that has robbed us of our senses! Today we are unable to see Rāma, broad-chested and mighty-armed.” They lamented, “How has Rāma, steadfast and true, abandoned his devoted people and departed as an ascetic? He who always protected us like a father—how could that foremost of the Raghu lineage leave us and go to the forest? What is left for us now? Let us end our lives here, or undertake the great departure, for what purpose remains without Rāma?” They spoke of gathering dry wood to build a funeral pyre, so deep was their despair. “What shall we say to that sweet-spoken, forgiving prince? How can we bear to admit that Rāghava was led away by our own actions?” They imagined Ayodhyā, desolate without Rāma, filled only with women, children, and the aged, bereft of its joy and glory. “Having left with that noble soul and now losing him, how can we return to our city?” Raising their arms in grief, they wept and lamented, like cows bereft of their calves. They tried to follow the path of the chariot, but soon became lost and overwhelmed by despair. Bewildered, they turned back, saying, “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” Heavy-hearted, they retraced their steps to Ayodhyā, the city now weighed down by sorrow. As they approached their home, tears streamed from their eyes, their minds agitated by loss. Ayodhyā, once radiant, now seemed dim and lifeless—like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuḍa, like the sky without the moon, or the ocean emptied of its waters. The city, bereft of Rāma, was plunged into bewilderment and sorrow, its joy utterly departed.