Who, indeed, could find joy in this sorrowful city, where the people, anxious and distracted, offered no warmth or welcome? If Kaikeyī now ruled, unrighteously and as if without guardianship, then what value remained in life for them—neither sons nor wealth brought comfort. She, who for the sake of power had abandoned both her own son and her husband, what hope was there that Kaikeyī, the stain of her lineage, would not forsake anyone else? The women of Ayodhyā lamented among themselves that they could not remain in the kingdom as servants under Kaikeyī; so long as she lived, even life with their own sons seemed cursed. Who, having encountered that cruel woman who banished the king’s son, could ever be happy with such a wicked, unrighteous one? All was afflicted, unsupported, and leaderless; because of Kaikeyī, they feared, everything would soon fall into ruin. With Rāma gone into exile, how could the king survive? And when Daśaratha died, surely destruction would follow. In their grief, the women cried out: “Drink poison, you who are bereft of merit and in dire straits! Or follow Rāghava, or else surrender 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—elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned, his face radiant as the full moon, his collarbone concealed, destroyer of foes, long-armed and lotus-eyed. He, who always spoke first, sweetly and truthfully, of great strength and gentle nature, beloved by all, pleasing to behold like the moon. Surely, they thought, that tiger among men, with the stride of a rutting elephant, would now grace the forests as he wandered, that great chariot-warrior. Thus, the women of Ayodhyā, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death approached, cried out in lamentation. As they grieved for Rāghava in their homes, the sun set and night descended. The fires were extinguished, conversations and stories fell silent, and the city shone dimly, as if enveloped in darkness. With the merchants’ goods stilled, joy lost, and shelter gone, Ayodhyā seemed like a sky bereft of stars. Distressed for Rāma, the women mourned as if for a son or brother sent away; they wept, miserable and bewildered for their own sons, yet their sorrow for Rāma was even greater. Ayodhyā became as silent as a vast ocean whose waters had receded; songs, festivals, dances, and music were subdued, joy had vanished, and the markets were closed. Thus, the women grieved for Rāma, and the city was plunged into mournful silence. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, traveled a great distance through the remainder of the night, his mind ever recalling his father’s command. As he journeyed onward, the auspicious night passed; he worshipped the sacred dawn and crossed beyond the boundaries of the kingdom. Swiftly, he passed through distant villages and blooming forests, beholding them as he went, moving as swiftly as arrows shot from excellent horses. He heard the voices of the villagers, speaking among themselves: “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 all 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 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 of the villagers, the heroic lord of Kosala continued swiftly on his way. He crossed the river named 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 river, whose banks were frequented by cattle, heading toward the ocean. Having crossed the Gomati with his swift horses, Rāma traversed the Syandikā river, which resounded with the cries of peacocks and swans. Rāma pointed out to Vaidehī the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, filled with thriving realms. Again and again, Rāma, whose voice was as melodious as a drunken swan, addressed the charioteer: “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, the descendant of Ikṣvāku, understanding the purpose of the journey, spoke sweetly to the charioteer and set out on that path, giving him instructions. Having traversed the delightful and vast Kosala, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with joined palms, spoke to the charioteer as they approached the outskirts of Ayodhyā: “I take leave of you, O best of cities, protected by the Kakutstha lineage, and of the deities who guard and dwell within you.” In this way ends the forty-eighth, forty-ninth, and the beginning of the fiftieth chapters of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki.