As the people of Ayodhya lay sleeping beneath the trees, Rama, ever thoughtful and compassionate, saw an opportunity. He knew that only while the citizens remained in slumber could he, Sita, and Lakshmana depart swiftly and without fear of being followed or causing further distress. With gentle resolve, Rama said that the devoted citizens of Ikshvaku’s city should not be left to sleep outside any longer, seeking refuge wherever they could. Their sorrow, caused by their own attachment and actions, ought to be eased by the princes, not deepened by witnessing their departure. Lakshmana, standing beside Rama and embodying righteousness itself, agreed wholeheartedly. “Let us quickly ascend the chariot, wise one,” he said. Rama then turned to Sumantra, the loyal charioteer, and instructed him, “Quickly yoke the chariot; I will go to the forest. Drive swiftly from here, O Sumantra.” Without delay, Sumantra readied the chariot, harnessing the excellent horses, and with hands joined in reverence, 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.” Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana mounted the chariot, accompanied by their attendants. They crossed the swift-flowing, swirling Tamasa river, leaving behind the sleeping city. Once across, the illustrious Rama, strong of arm and steadfast of heart, found a broad and safe road—clear of thorns and dangers, yet daunting to those who carried fear within. Wishing to mislead the citizens and prevent them from following, Rama instructed Sumantra, “Turn the chariot northward, O charioteer, and proceed. After driving swiftly for a while, turn the chariot back again, so the people may not discern our true path. Do this with great care.” Sumantra obeyed, skillfully turning the chariot as instructed, and reported back to Rama when all was done. Once more, Rama and Lakshmana, with Sita, mounted the ready chariot. Sumantra urged the horses along the path toward the hermitage, guiding the chariot northward, as auspicious omens appeared to bless their journey. Thus, the mighty Dasarathi, Rama, accompanied by his faithful charioteer, set forth for the forest. When the night had passed, the citizens of Ayodhya awoke, hearts heavy and motionless with grief upon realizing Rama was gone. Overwhelmed by tears and sorrow, they gazed about, searching in vain for a glimpse of Rama. Their faces were stricken, and, deprived of the wise and compassionate prince, they began to lament. “Fie upon that sleep which steals away our minds!” they cried. “Today we cannot see Rama, broad-chested and mighty-armed. How has Rama, 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 gripped them. “Let us end our lives here, or undertake the great departure. What is the use of 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, sweet-spoken one? How can we bear to say, ‘Raghava was led away by us’?” They imagined Ayodhya itself would become forlorn, joyless, filled only with women, children, and the aged, bereft of Raghava. “Having departed with that heroic, noble soul, and now bereft of him, how shall we again behold our city?” they wailed, raising their arms in anguish, lamenting like cows bereft of their calves. Following the tracks of the chariot, they pressed onward, but soon lost the way. Bewildered and struck down by fate, they turned back, hearts weary and spirits broken. Retracing their steps, they returned to Ayodhya, the city now shrouded in sorrow. As they entered their beloved city, their minds agitated by loss, tears streamed from their eyes. They saw Ayodhya as a city stripped of its radiance—like a river whose serpents had been snatched away by Garuda, or the sky without the moon, or the ocean without water. Their joy was gone, their minds bewildered. Inside their splendid mansions, sorrow overwhelmed them. They could not recognize their own kin, nor the faces of others, as they gazed about, their happiness utterly vanished. Thus, deeply afflicted, their eyes brimming with tears and their hearts overwhelmed by the wish for death, the people of Ayodhya seemed as if their very spirits had departed after following Rama and returning. Each went to their own home, surrounded by children and spouses, but all shed tears, their faces veiled by weeping. No joy remained; no one was gladdened. Merchants did not display their wares, goods no longer attracted the eye, and householders could not bring themselves to cook meals. Even those who recovered lost wealth did not rejoice, nor did mothers celebrate the birth of their firstborn sons. In every home, women wept and reproached their husbands who had returned, their words sharp and filled with grief, as Ayodhya mourned the absence of her beloved prince, Rama.