As the city of Ayodhyā reeled from Rāma’s departure, grief-stricken voices rose among the women, their hearts heavy with despair. “Drink poison, you who are depleted of merit and in dire straits,” they cried to one another in anguish, “or follow Rāghava, or else sink into oblivion.” Their sorrow was profound, for Rāma—falsely exiled with his devoted wife Sītā and loyal brother Lakṣmaṇa—had left them behind, and now they felt as helpless as beasts handed over to a hunter, subject to Bharata’s rule. They remembered Rāma, the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, whose dark complexion and full-moon face shone with beauty. His collarbone was hidden beneath his broad chest, his long arms and lotus-like eyes marked him as a destroyer of foes. He was always the first to speak, his words sweet and truthful, his strength immense. Gentle and beloved by all, he was as pleasing to behold as the moon itself. “Surely,” they lamented, “that tiger among men, whose stride is like that of a rutting elephant, will now beautify the forests as he roams—he, the great chariot-warrior.” Thus, tormented by sorrow and fearful as if death itself approached, the women of Ayodhyā cried out in their homes. As they mourned for Rāghava, the sun set and night descended upon the city. With the fires extinguished and conversations silenced, Ayodhyā seemed wrapped in darkness. The joy of the merchants was gone, their goods quieted, and the city appeared as empty as a sky without stars. The women, distressed for Rāma as though for a son or brother sent away, wept for their own children, yet their grief for him was even greater. Ayodhyā became as silent as a vast ocean whose waters had receded. Songs, festivals, dances, and music were subdued, joy vanished, and the markets closed. Thus, the women grieved for Rāma, their hearts desolate. So ends the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, journeyed far through the remainder of the night, his mind ever dwelling on his father’s command. As the auspicious night passed, he worshipped the sacred dawn and crossed the boundary of his father’s kingdom. Swiftly he passed through distant villages and blooming forests, moving with the speed of arrows loosed from mighty bows. As he traveled, he overheard the voices of villagers, their words filled with dismay and indignation: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire! Kaikeyī is cruel and sinful, bound to evil, breaking all boundaries with her harsh actions. 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? Alas, King Daśaratha shows no affection, wishing to abandon Rāma, his blameless and beloved son, for the sake of the people.” Hearing these words, Rāma, the heroic lord of Kosala, pressed onward. Soon he crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose pure waters ran clear, and continued toward the region inhabited by the sage Agastya. After a long journey, he crossed the cold waters of the Gomati, its banks frequented by cattle, and moved toward the ocean. With his swift horses, he crossed the Syandikā river, where the cries of peacocks and swans filled the air. Along the way, Rāma showed Sītā the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, a realm thriving and abundant. Speaking often to the charioteer, his voice as melodious as a drunken swan, Rāma said, “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 unmatched—esteemed by kings and sages alike. For in this world, hunting in the forest is arranged for the delight of royal sages and is desired by skilled archers at the proper time.” Knowing the purpose of their journey, the descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke sweetly to the charioteer, giving him instructions for the road ahead. Thus ends the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the first poem, the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Having traversed the delightful and vast land of Kosala, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with palms joined in reverence, spoke to the charioteer as they neared the border 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 exile in the forest is completed, free from debt to the king, I will see you again, together with my mother and father.” With his eyes reddened by tears, Rāma raised his right arm, his face sorrowful, and spoke to the people of the land: “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 paid their respects to the great-souled Rāma and circumambulated him, the people, lamenting terribly, stood here and there. Even as they wept in longing, Rāghava departed from their sight, as the sun disappears at the approach of night. Journeying on, he saw prosperous villages filled with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, untroubled by fear, and adorned with sacrificial posts. These villages were beautified with gardens and mango groves, blessed with abundant water, crowded with contented and healthy people, and served by herds of cattle. Thus the journey of Rāma continued, his heart steadfast, as he moved further from Ayodhyā and deeper into the path of destiny.