As the night unfolded, Rama observed the steadfastness of the townspeople who had followed him from Ayodhya, upholding their vow to never turn back from his side. He knew their resolve was so unwavering that they would sooner surrender their lives than abandon their devotion. Yet, Rama understood the burden their commitment placed upon them. Only while these citizens slept, nestled beneath the trees, could he and his companions depart swiftly and unobserved, avoiding causing them further sorrow. Rama wished that the people of Ikshvaku’s city would not continue to sleep outside, exposed to hardship, but rather be freed from the grief their own actions had brought upon them. He was determined not to add to their suffering. Lakshmana, ever righteous and resolute, agreed with Rama’s plan and urged him to ascend the chariot quickly. Rama then addressed Sumantra, his loyal charioteer, instructing him to yoke the chariot without delay. “I must go to the forest,” Rama said. “Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” Sumantra hastened to prepare the chariot, harnessing the excellent horses, and with hands joined in respect, announced to Rama, “Here is your chariot, mighty-armed prince, best among warriors. Ascend quickly, with Sita and Lakshmana. May all be well with you.” Rama, accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana, mounted the chariot. With his attendants, Raghava crossed the swirling, swift-flowing Tamasa River. On the other side, the illustrious and mighty-armed Rama reached a great, safe road, free from thorns—a path that would be daunting to those who fear. To mislead the citizens and protect them from further grief, Rama instructed Sumantra, “Turn the chariot northward and proceed.” After driving swiftly for a time, Rama asked Sumantra to turn back again, so that the townspeople would not discern the true direction of his journey. Sumantra faithfully followed Rama’s instructions and reported back to him. Once more, Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita mounted the ready chariot, and Sumantra urged the horses onward, following the path toward the hermitage. Thus, the mighty Dasarathi set out for the forest, the chariot facing north, guided by auspicious omens for the journey. When dawn broke and the night had passed, the citizens who had followed Rama awoke. Bereft of their beloved prince, they were struck motionless with grief, their hearts shattered. Overwhelmed by tears born of sorrow, they gazed again and again, searching in vain for a glimpse of Rama. Their faces were marked by anguish, and the compassionate, wise among them spoke words of lamentation. “Fie upon that sleep which steals away our senses!” they cried. “Today we cannot see Rama, broad-chested and mighty-armed. How has Rama, so true to his word and so great in strength, abandoned his devoted people and gone away as an ascetic? He who always protected us like a father protects his sons—how has that foremost of Raghu’s lineage left us for the forest?” Despair consumed them. “Let us meet our end here, or embark upon the great departure. What purpose is there in living, deprived of Rama? 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, gentle, sweet-spoken one? How can we bear to confess, ‘Raghava was led away by us’?” They imagined Ayodhya, the city, joyless and forlorn without Rama, filled only with women, children, and the aged. “Having departed with that heroic, noble soul and now bereft of him, how shall we again behold our city?” Raising their arms, the people uttered these words in distress, lamenting like cows bereft of their calves. As they continued along the path, their despair deepened. They lost their way, unable to follow the chariot’s trail, and said to one another, “What is this? What shall we do, struck down by fate?” Weary-hearted, they retraced their steps and returned to Ayodhya, their city now filled with sorrow. Upon entering the city, their minds agitated by loss, tears streamed from their eyes. Ayodhya, bereft of Rama, no longer shone—it was like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuda, or like the sky without the moon, or the ocean without water. Their hearts bewildered, they saw the city stripped of joy. They entered their splendid mansions, but, overwhelmed by grief, could not recognize their own people or others. Their joy had utterly vanished. Distressed and deeply afflicted, their eyes filled with tears and their minds overwhelmed by sorrow and the wish to die, the city-dwellers seemed as if their spirits had departed after following Rama and then returning. Each went back to their own home, surrounded by children and spouses, shedding tears, their faces veiled by weeping. No one rejoiced, no one found gladness. Merchants did not display their wares, goods did not seem attractive, and householders did not cook meals. Even those who recovered lost wealth did not celebrate their gains, nor did a mother rejoice upon receiving her firstborn son. Ayodhya, once vibrant, was now plunged into grief, mourning the absence of Rama.