As Rāma, the mighty-armed son of Daśaratha, prepared to depart, the city women urged their husbands to follow him before he traveled too far. They spoke with deep affection, saying that the shade of such a great soul as their lord brought comfort; for Rāghava was their protector, their refuge, and their ultimate goal. In their sorrow, the women declared their intention to serve Sītā, while their husbands would serve Rāma, expressing their devotion and grief in many ways. They believed that Rāma would ensure the welfare and security of their husbands in the forest, and that Sītā, though a woman, would care for the people left behind. The women lamented the unpleasantness of the city, its anxious and distracted inhabitants, and wondered who could find joy in such a place. If Kaikeyī were to rule unrighteously, as if without guardianship, they felt that life itself would lose all value—sons and wealth would mean nothing. Kaikeyī, they said, had abandoned her own son and husband for the sake of power; who else would she not forsake, being the stain of her lineage? The women declared that they would not remain in the kingdom as servants under Kaikeyī, and cursed even living with their sons while she lived. Who, they asked, could live happily after encountering that cruel woman who banished the king’s son, so wicked and unrighteous? All was afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless; because of Kaikeyī, everything would soon come to ruin. With Rāma gone into exile, they feared the king would not survive, and when Daśaratha died, destruction would surely follow. In their despair, they spoke of drinking poison, following Rāghava, or else embracing oblivion, for they were depleted of merit and in dire straits. Rāma, falsely exiled with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, had left them to Bharata, like helpless beasts handed over to a hunter. They remembered Rāma—the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned with a face like the full moon, collarbone concealed, destroyer of foes, long-armed, and lotus-eyed. He spoke first, sweetly and truthfully, possessed great strength, was gentle and beloved by all, pleasing to behold like the moon. Surely, they thought, that tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, would beautify the forests as he roamed, that great chariot-warrior. Thus, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death approached, the city women cried out in lament. As they grieved for Rāghava in their homes, the sun set and night arrived. The fires were extinguished, conversations and stories silenced, and the city shone as if enveloped in darkness. With merchants’ goods quieted, joy lost, and shelter gone, Ayodhyā became like a sky bereft of stars. Distressed for Rāma, the women grieved as if for a son or brother sent away; they wept, miserable and bewildered, for their sons, yet their sorrow for him was greater. Ayodhyā became as silent as a vast ocean whose waters have receded, with songs, festivals, dances, and music subdued, joy vanished, and the markets closed. Thus ends the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Meanwhile, Rāma, that 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 villagers, lamenting: “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, which carried pure waters, 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 noble Sītā—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 to him: “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. For in this world, hunting in the forest is indeed arranged for the pleasure of royal sages, and is desired by men skilled with the bow at the proper time.” Thus, Rāma journeyed onward, his heart filled with longing and memories, as the story continued.