All of Ayodhyā seemed shrouded in sorrow and fear, for the city was left afflicted, without support or guidance. Because of Kaikeyī’s harsh demand, the people believed that everything would soon fall into ruin. With Rāma sent away into exile, they were certain the king would not survive long; and when Daśaratha died, they foresaw destruction for all. In their despair, the women of the city lamented, urging one another to drink poison in their misery, to follow Rāma into the wilderness, or else to embrace oblivion, for they felt utterly bereft of merit and hope. They cried that Rāma, unjustly exiled with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, had left them behind—delivered to Bharata as helpless as wild beasts placed in the hands of a hunter. They remembered Rāma, the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, dark-complexioned with a face radiant as the full moon, strong arms, a hidden collarbone, lotus eyes, and a gentle nature. He always spoke first, with sweetness and truth, possessed great strength, and was beloved by all, as pleasing to behold as the moon itself. Now, that tiger among men, with the stride of a proud elephant, would wander the forests, gracing them with his presence as a mighty chariot-warrior. Thus, the women of the city, tormented by grief and the approach of despair, lifted up their voices in lamentation. As they wept for Rāghava in their homes, the sun set, and night descended upon Ayodhyā. The city grew silent and dark: sacred fires were extinguished, the usual conversations and stories ceased, and Ayodhyā seemed enveloped in gloom. The bustling of merchants faded; joy and shelter vanished, so that the city appeared like the night sky stripped of its stars. The women, grieving for Rāma as for a lost son or brother, wept for their own children, but their sorrow for him was greater still. Ayodhyā became as silent as an ocean whose waters had ebbed away—no songs, no festivals, no dances or music, and the markets closed, joy utterly vanished. Thus, the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient Rāmāyaṇa came to its end. Meanwhile, Rāma, tiger among men, traveled far into the night, his mind ever fixed on his father’s command. As the auspicious night gave way to dawn, he performed his worship of the morning and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly, he passed through distant villages and blooming forests, moving with the speed of arrows loosed from the bows of great horses. As he journeyed, he heard the voices of the villagers, their words heavy with reproach: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen prey to desire. Today Kaikeyī is cruel and bound to evil; she has crossed all bounds and acts harshly. She sends into exile the righteous son of the king, wise, compassionate, and diligent. How will Sītā, the blessed daughter of Janaka, who has always known happiness, now endure suffering? Alas, King Daśaratha is without affection, willing to abandon Rāma, his blameless and beloved son, for the sake of others.” Hearing these bitter words, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed onward. He crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose pure waters flowed clear, and continued toward the region of sage Agastya. After a long journey, he crossed the cold, cattle-frequented river Gomati, heading toward the ocean. With swift horses, Rāma traversed the Syandikā river, whose banks echoed with the calls of peacocks and swans. As they traveled, Rāma showed Sītā the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, filled with thriving realms. Addressing the charioteer often, his voice as melodious as a swan’s, Rāma spoke: “When will I return to the blossoming forest by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, united again with my mother and father? I do not yearn excessively for hunting, yet this pleasure is unparalleled in the world, cherished by kings and sages. Indeed, hunting in the forest is ordained for the pleasure of royal seers, and is sought by skilled bowmen at the proper time.” Having spoken thus, the descendant of Ikṣvāku, understanding the time and purpose, addressed the charioteer sweetly and continued on his path, giving him instructions as they went. Thus ended the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the first poem, the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Having traversed the vast and delightful Kosala, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with joined palms, addressed the charioteer as they neared the borders 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. When my time in exile is fulfilled and I am free of my debt to the king, I will see you again, together with my mother and father.” With eyes reddened by tears, raising his right arm, his face sorrowful, Rāma spoke to the people of Janapada: “You have shown me compassion and kindness as was fitting; but long suffering is worse than evil—go now, so that your purpose may be fulfilled.” Having saluted the great soul and circumambulated him, the people, lamenting terribly, stood here and there. As they wept and their longing remained unsatisfied, Rāghava departed from their sight, like the sun vanishing at the approach of night.