As Rāma departed into exile, a deep gloom descended upon Ayodhyā. The city’s women, overcome with sorrow, lamented that the king, Daśaratha, would not survive Rāma’s absence; and with the king’s death, they feared, destruction would surely follow. In their anguish, they cried out to one another, “Drink poison, you who are forsaken by fortune and virtue, or follow Rāghava into the forest, or else surrender yourselves to oblivion. For Rāma, unjustly exiled with his devoted wife Sītā and loyal Lakṣmaṇa, has left us behind to Bharata, as if helpless creatures handed over to a hunter.” They remembered Rāma—Lakṣmaṇa’s elder brother—dark-complexioned, his face radiant as the full moon, collarbone hidden beneath his broad chest, long-armed, lotus-eyed, a destroyer of foes. He was gentle, beloved by all, pleasing to behold like the moon, and his words were always the first, always sweet and truthful. That tiger among men, whose stride rivaled the gait of a proud elephant, would now beautify the forest with his presence as he wandered, that great chariot-warrior. Thus the city’s women cried out, tormented by grief and paralyzed by fear, as though death itself approached. Their lamentations for Rāghava echoed through their homes as the sun set and night fell. Fires were extinguished, conversations and stories ceased, and Ayodhyā seemed cloaked in darkness. The markets were still, joy vanished, and the city, stripped of shelter and festivity, resembled a starless sky. The women grieved for Rāma as they would for a son or brother sent away, weeping for their own children, yet their sorrow for him was greater. Ayodhyā grew silent, like a vast ocean whose waters had receded; songs, festivals, dances, and music were stilled, happiness had fled, and the bustling markets were closed. Amid this mourning, the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa concludes. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, journeyed far during the remainder of the night, his mind ever dwelling on his father’s command. As the auspicious night gave way to dawn, he worshipped the morning and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly he passed through distant villages and blooming forests, moving as swiftly as arrows loosed from mighty bows. Along the way, he overheard the voices of villagers, who said, “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, Kaikeyī is cruel and bound to evil, acting without restraint. She sends the righteous prince, 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? What kind of father is Daśaratha, to abandon his blameless and beloved son for the sake of the people?” Hearing these words, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed onward. He crossed the clear waters of the Vedashrutī river and journeyed toward the region of the sage Agastya. Traveling on, he crossed the cold, cattle-frequented Gomati river, moving ever closer to the ocean. With swift horses, Rāma traversed the Syandikā river, whose banks echoed with the calls of peacocks and swans. As they journeyed, Rāma showed Sītā the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, filled with thriving realms. Speaking often to the charioteer with a voice as sweet as a swan’s, Rāma said, “When will I return to the blossoming forest by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, reunited with my mother and father? Though I do not yearn excessively for the hunt, the joy it brings is incomparable, cherished by kings and sages. Indeed, forest hunting is a pleasure arranged for royal sages and is sought by skilled archers at the proper time.” Thus, understanding the ways of the world, Rāma spoke sweetly to the charioteer and continued on his path. Here ends the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Having traversed the delightful and vast Kosala, Rāma, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, folded his palms in reverence and spoke to the charioteer as they approached the border of Ayodhyā. “I take leave of you, O best of cities, protected by the noble Kakutstha lineage, and of the deities who guard and dwell within you. When my exile is complete and my duty to the king fulfilled, I will see you again, together with my mother and father.” With tears reddening his eyes, he raised his right arm in sorrow and addressed the people of the Janapada: “You have shown me compassion and kindness as was fitting, but long suffering is worse than evil. Go now, and fulfill your own purposes.” The people, having paid their respects and circled him in reverence, stood lamenting in grief. As they wept, their longing unsatisfied, Rāghava departed from their sight, like the sun vanishing at nightfall. Continuing on, he beheld prosperous villages, rich with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, free from fear, beautiful and adorned with sacrificial posts. Thus concludes the fiftieth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki.