As Rāma journeyed onward, the natural world itself seemed to rejoice in his presence. The forests, resplendent with their beauty, the mighty rivers, the expansive marshlands, and the lofty mountains with their peaks all appeared to adorn themselves for Kakutstha’s sake. Wherever Rāma approached—be it a forest or a mountain—they welcomed him as a cherished guest, honoring him with reverence and delight. The mountains, moved by compassion, would present Rāma with crowns of flowers and abundant offerings. Even when the season was wrong, the finest blossoms and fruits would appear as if by magic, eager to please him. Cascades of pure water would pour forth from the mountains, revealing wondrous, colorful waterfalls. The trees atop the peaks seemed to sway in joy, and wherever Rāghava was present, fear and defeat could find no place. For Rāma was a mighty hero, strong of arm, the noble son of Daśaratha. The people, deeply devoted, spoke among themselves: “Let us follow Rāghava before he goes too far. The shade of such a great soul as our lord brings comfort; he is our protector, our refuge, and our ultimate goal.” The women of the city, their hearts heavy with sorrow, turned to their husbands in grief. “We will serve Sītā; you will serve Rāghava,” they said, longing for the chance to remain close to their beloved exiles. “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and safety in the forest, and Sītā, gentle and caring, will look after us as well.” They lamented the state of their city: “Who could find happiness in this place now, surrounded by anxious, distracted people? If Kaikeyī rules with injustice, as if there were no guardians, what value is left in life, in sons or wealth? She has abandoned both her son and her husband for power—who else would Kaikeyī, the stain upon her lineage, not betray?” Their sorrow deepened as they spoke: “We will not remain here as servants under Kaikeyī. Even living with our own sons is a curse while she lives. Who could find joy in the company of that cruel woman who banished the king’s son? All is afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless—because of Kaikeyī, ruin is certain.” They foresaw disaster: “With Rāma gone into exile, the king will not survive; and when Daśaratha dies, destruction will surely follow. Those who remain, depleted of merit and hope, may as well drink poison, follow Rāghava, or seek oblivion. Rāma, unjustly exiled with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, has left us to Bharata, as if we were helpless beasts given over to a hunter.” They remembered Rāma’s virtues: the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned, with a face radiant as the full moon, his collarbone hidden, destroyer of foes, long-armed, and lotus-eyed. He spoke first, always sweetly and truthfully, strong and gentle, beloved by all, and as pleasing to behold as the moon itself. Surely, they thought, this tiger among men, with the stride of a proud elephant and the skills of a great chariot-warrior, would bring beauty even to the wild forests where he wandered. Thus, the women of the city wept and lamented, their hearts filled with fear and sorrow as if death itself approached. As they grieved for Rāghava in their homes, the sun set and night descended upon Ayodhyā. Fires were extinguished, conversations and stories fell silent, and the city was cloaked in darkness. The bustling of merchants ceased, joy vanished, and shelter seemed lost—Ayodhyā became as empty as the sky without stars. The women’s grief for Rāma was greater than for their own sons or brothers sent away; they wept in misery and confusion. The city was as silent as a vast ocean whose waters had withdrawn, its songs, festivals, dances, and music stilled, its markets closed, and all joy departed. In this way, the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient Rāmāyaṇa, composed by Vālmīki, comes to an end. Meanwhile, Rāma—tiger among men—traveled a great distance through the night, his mind ever mindful of his father’s command. As the auspicious night gave way to dawn, Rāma performed his morning worship and crossed the boundary of his father’s kingdom. He moved swiftly, passing villages with distant borders and blooming forests, viewing them as he went, swift as arrows shot from fine horses. As he traveled, he heard the voices of villagers, their words carried on the wind: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, Kaikeyī is cruel and sinful, bound to evil, breaking all bounds and acting 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 known happiness, now endure suffering? Ah, King Daśaratha is without affection, wishing to abandon Rāma, his blameless and beloved son, for the sake of the people.” Hearing these words, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed on. He crossed the river Vedashrutī, its waters pure, and proceeded toward the region where the sage Agastya dwelled. After traveling a great distance, he crossed the cold waters of the Gomati river, its banks frequented by cattle, ever moving onward toward the ocean.