Upon the mountain peaks, the trees seemed to rejoice in Rāma’s presence, for wherever Rāghava dwelled, fear and defeat could not exist. The city people, recognizing Rāma’s heroic might and his noble lineage as the son of Daśaratha, urged one another: before he journeys far, let us follow Rāghava, for his shade brings comfort to all. He is their protector, their refuge, and their ultimate goal. The women of Ayodhyā, in their grief, spoke to 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, though a woman, would provide care and security for the people. Who could find joy in this city now, with its anxious, distracted minds and unpleasant atmosphere? With Kaikeyī ruling unrighteously and without proper guardianship, life itself seemed worthless; neither sons nor wealth could bring happiness. Kaikeyī, who had abandoned her own son and husband for power, was a stain upon her lineage—whom else might she not forsake? The people declared they would not remain in the kingdom as servants under Kaikeyī; they cursed even the thought of living with their sons while she lived. Who could be happy after encountering such a cruel woman, one who banished the king’s son? All was afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless; because of Kaikeyī, everything would soon fall into ruin. With Rāma gone into exile, the king would not survive; and when Daśaratha died, destruction would surely follow. Despairing, they said: “Drink poison, you who are depleted of merit and in dire straits; or follow Rāghava, or else go to oblivion. Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, has left us to Bharata, as if beasts handed over to a hunter.” They remembered Rāma: elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned, with a face like the full moon, his collarbone concealed, destroyer of foes, long-armed, lotus-eyed. He spoke first, sweetly and truthfully, was 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 soon beautify the forests as he roamed, that great chariot-warrior. Thus, the city women lamented, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death approached, crying out in their homes for Rāghava. As they grieved, the sun set and night arrived. The fires were extinguished; conversations and stories fell silent, and the city shone as if enveloped in darkness. Merchants’ goods were quieted, joy lost, and shelter gone—Ayodhyā became like the sky bereft of stars. Distressed for Rāma, the women wept as if for a son or brother sent away; though miserable and bewildered for their own sons, 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 ends the forty-eighth chapter of 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, 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 flying from excellent horses. He heard the voices of the villagers: “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.” Hearing these words, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed onward. He crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose waters were pure, and proceeded toward the region inhabited by Agastya. After traveling for a long time, he crossed the river Gomati, whose waters were cold and whose banks were frequented by cattle, heading toward the ocean. Having crossed the Gomati with swift horses, Rāma traversed the Syandikā river, resounding with cries of peacocks and swans. Rāma showed Vaidehī the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, filled with thriving realms. Repeatedly addressing the charioteer, the illustrious Rāma, whose voice was like that of a drunken swan, spoke: “When will I return again to the blossoming forest by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, united with my mother and father? I do not excessively long for hunting in the Sarayū forest; yet this pleasure is incomparable in the world, esteemed by kings and sages.” Thus, Rāma journeyed onward, his heart full of longing, as the city mourned his absence and the world changed around him.