In the city of Ayodhyā, grief and longing filled the hearts of its people. What use, they wondered, were their houses, wives, wealth, sons, or even pleasures, if they could not see Rāghava, their beloved Rāma? Among all, only Lakṣmaṇa, steadfast and true, remained faithful—he alone, together with Sītā, followed Kakutstha Rāma into the forest, serving him with unwavering devotion. The rivers and lotus-filled lakes were blessed, for in their pure waters Kakutstha would bathe. The delightful forests, broad rivers, marshlands, and towering mountains would all be adorned by his presence. Wherever Rāma approached, every forest and mountain would honor him as a cherished guest, offering crowns of flowers and abundant gifts. Even out of season, the finest blossoms and fruits would appear, shown to Rāma by the compassionate mountains. The mountains would pour forth pure waters, revealing wondrous and colorful waterfalls. The trees on their peaks would delight Rāghava, for wherever Rāma was, there could be no fear nor defeat. He was a hero, mighty-armed, the son of Daśaratha. Before he journeyed far, the people yearned to follow him. The shade of such a great soul was comforting; Rāma was their protector, refuge, and ultimate goal. The women of the city spoke in their sorrow, urging their husbands, "We will serve Sītā, and you will serve Rāghava." They believed that Rāghava would ensure their welfare and safety in the forest, and Sītā would provide for their wellbeing. Who could find joy in this unpleasant city, filled with anxious, distracted people? If Kaikeyī ruled unrighteously, as if without guardianship, then life held no value—not sons, not wealth. Kaikeyī had abandoned her own son and husband for power; who else would she not forsake? The people declared they would not remain as servants under Kaikeyī; while she lived, even life with their sons felt cursed. Who could be happy after encountering the cruel woman who banished the king's son? Because of Kaikeyī, all was afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless; everything would soon come to ruin. With Rāma gone into exile, the king would not survive; when Daśaratha died, destruction would surely follow. In despair, they cried, "Drink poison, you who are depleted of merit; or follow Rāghava, or else go to oblivion." Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, had left them to Bharata, as if beasts handed to a hunter. They remembered Rāma, the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa: dark-complexioned, his face like the full moon, collarbone concealed, destroyer of foes, long-armed, lotus-eyed. He spoke first, sweetly and truthfully, a man of great strength, gentle, beloved by all, pleasing to behold like the moon. Surely, that tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, would beautify the forests as he roamed, a great chariot-warrior. Thus, the city women lamented, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death approached, crying out in their homes. As they grieved for Rāghava, the sun set and night descended. Fires were extinguished, conversations and stories silenced; the city shone as if enveloped in darkness. Merchants’ goods were quieted, joy lost, shelter gone—Ayodhyā became like the sky bereft of stars. Distressed for Rāma, the women grieved as for a son or brother sent away; miserable and bewildered, they wept for their own sons, yet their sorrow for Rāma was greater. Ayodhyā became as silent as a vast ocean whose waters had receded; songs, festivals, dances, and music were subdued, joy vanished, and the markets closed. Thus ended the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa, composed by Vālmīki. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, traveled a great distance during the remainder of the night, his mind continually recalling his father's command. As he continued on his way, the auspicious night passed; he worshipped the sacred dawn and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly, he passed villages with distant borders and blooming forests, viewing them as he went, like arrows shot from excellent horses. He heard the voices of people living in the villages, saying, "Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, today Kaikeyī is cruel, sinful, and bound to evil; she has broken boundaries and acts harshly. She sends the righteous son of the king, wise, compassionate, and diligent, into exile in the forest. How will Sītā, the blessed daughter of Janaka, who has always enjoyed happiness, now experience suffering? Ah, King Daśaratha is without affection, wishing to abandon Rāma, his blameless and beloved son, for the sake of the people." Thus, the sorrow of Ayodhyā and the anguish of its people echoed through the land as Rāma journeyed onward, steadfast in his duty.