The women of Ayodhyā, hearts weighed down by sorrow, spoke softly among themselves, seeking solace in the memory of their beloved Rāma. “The shade of such a great soul as our lord,” they said, “is comforting to us all—he is our protector, our refuge, and the very goal of our lives.” In their grief, they resolved, “We will serve Sītā, and you, our husbands, will serve Rāghava.” With these words, the women tried to comfort one another, their voices filled with longing and pain. They placed their faith in Rāma and Sītā, believing, “Rāghava will ensure your welfare and security in the forest, while Sītā, though a woman, will look after the welfare and safety of the people here.” Yet, their hearts ached for the city, now so changed. “Who,” they wondered, “could find joy in this unpleasant dwelling, filled with anxious and distracted minds?” Their thoughts turned to Kaikeyī, whose actions had cast a shadow over the kingdom. “If Kaikeyī rules unrighteously, as if without guardianship, then what value is there in life—what worth have sons or wealth?” they lamented. “She has abandoned her own son and husband for power—who else would Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, not forsake?” The women’s spirits were crushed at the thought of remaining servants under Kaikeyī. “While she lives, even the company of our sons is a curse to us.” Their words grew more bitter. “Who could be happy living with such a cruel and unrighteous woman, who banishes the king’s son?” they asked. “All is afflicted, unsupported, leaderless—because of Kaikeyī, everything will soon come to ruin. With Rāma exiled, the king will not survive; when Daśaratha dies, destruction will surely follow.” In their despair, the women cried out, “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, like helpless beasts handed over to a hunter.” They remembered Rāma with longing: “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 speaks first, sweetly and truthfully, strong and gentle, beloved by all, pleasing to behold like the moon. Surely that tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, will beautify the forests as he roams, that great chariot-warrior.” Thus, as the city women lamented, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death itself approached, their cries filled the air. As they grieved for Rāghava in their homes, the sun set and night descended. The city, with all fires extinguished and conversations silenced, shone as if enveloped in darkness. The merchants’ goods lay untouched, joy was lost, and shelter seemed gone—Ayodhyā became like the sky without stars. Distressed for Rāma, the women wept as if mourning a son or brother sent away. They grieved for their own sons, but their sorrow for Rāma was greater. Ayodhyā became as silent as a vast ocean whose waters have receded; songs, festivals, dances, and music were subdued, joy vanished, and the markets were closed. Thus ends the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa, composed by Vālmīki. As the night wore on, Rāma, the tiger among men, journeyed far, his mind ever recalling his father’s command. When the auspicious night had passed, he worshipped the sacred dawn and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly, he passed through distant villages and blooming forests, moving like arrows shot from excellent horses. Along the way, he heard the voices of villagers: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Kaikeyī is cruel and sinful, bound to evil—she has broken all bounds 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 known happiness, now endure suffering? King Daśaratha is without affection, wishing to abandon Rāma, his blameless and beloved son, for the sake of others.” Hearing these words, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed on. He crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose waters were pure, and journeyed toward the region inhabited by Agastya. After traveling a long distance, he crossed the cold waters of the Gomati, its banks frequented by cattle, and continued toward the ocean. With swift horses, he crossed the Gomati and then the Syandikā river, where the cries of peacocks and swans filled the air. Rāma showed Vaidehī the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, filled with thriving realms. Addressing his charioteer again and again, his voice as sweet as a drunken swan, the illustrious Rāma spoke: “When will I return 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.” He reflected, “In this world, hunting in the forest is indeed arranged for the pleasure of royal sages, and is desired by skilled bowmen at the proper time.” With these thoughts, the descendant of Ikṣvāku, understanding his purpose, spoke sweetly to the charioteer and set out on his path, giving him instructions as they continued their journey onward.