Rāma, the beloved prince, was a man of rare virtues—always the first to speak, his words unfailingly sweet and truthful. His strength was matched by his gentleness, and he was cherished by all, his radiant presence as pleasing as the moon on a clear night. When he walked, he moved with the majestic stride of a rutting elephant, a true tiger among men, and wherever he roamed, the forests themselves seemed adorned by his presence, for he was a mighty chariot-warrior. Yet, as he departed, the women of Ayodhyā were overcome with grief. Their hearts heavy with sorrow and fear, as if death itself had drawn near, they raised their voices in lamentation. Throughout the city, in their own homes, they wept for Rāghava, and as the sun set and night fell, their cries filled the air. The fires that once brought warmth and light were extinguished; storytelling and friendly conversations fell silent, and Ayodhyā seemed cloaked in darkness. Merchants’ stalls, once bustling with life, now stood quiet and empty. Joy had vanished, and the city, bereft of comfort, resembled a sky without stars. The women, tormented by their love for Rāma, grieved for him as they would for a son or brother sent far away. Though they mourned for their own children, their sorrow for Rāma was even deeper. The city lay as silent as a vast ocean whose waters had receded; the songs, festivals, dances, and music had ceased, and with the markets closed, all joy was lost. Thus ended the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in Vālmīki’s ancient epic. Throughout the remainder of that night, Rāma journeyed far, his mind ever mindful of his father’s command. As the auspicious night gave way to dawn, he offered his worship to the morning light and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly he passed through distant villages and blooming forests, the land rushing by like arrows loosed from the bows of fine horses. As he traveled, he heard the voices of villagers lamenting, “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen prey to desire! Alas, Kaikeyī is cruel and bound to evil, breaking all limits and acting harshly. She sends the righteous prince—wise, compassionate, and steadfast—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 others.” Hearing these words, Rāma, the heroic lord of Kosala, pressed onward. He crossed the pure waters of the river Vedashrutī, heading toward the region of the sage Agastya. After traveling long, he crossed the cold-flowing river Gomati, its banks frequented by cattle, moving ever toward the ocean. With swift horses, he traversed the Syandikā river, its air alive with the cries of peacocks and swans. Along the way, Rāma showed Sītā the prosperous lands once bestowed by King Manu upon Ikṣvāku, lands thriving and abundant. Addressing his charioteer again and again in a voice as melodious as a drunken swan, Rāma spoke, “When shall I return to the blossoming forest by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, united with my mother and father? I do not long for the hunt itself, yet there is no greater delight in this world, cherished by kings and sages alike. Indeed, hunting in the forest is a pleasure arranged for royal sages and is sought by skilled archers at the proper time.” Understanding his purpose, the descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke gently to the charioteer and continued on the journey, giving his instructions as they went. Thus ended the forty-ninth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the great Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Having traversed the vast and delightful land of Kosala, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with hands joined in reverence, spoke to the charioteer as they turned toward Ayodhyā. “I take leave of you, O best of cities, protected by the noble line of Kakutstha, and of the deities who guard and dwell within you. When my exile in the forest is fulfilled, my debt to the king repaid, I shall see you again, together with my mother and father.” With eyes reddened by tears, he raised his right arm, sorrow etched upon his face, and addressed 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.” The people, after saluting the great-souled Rāma and circumambulating him, stood here and there, lamenting terribly. Unsatisfied in their longing, they watched as Rāghava departed from their sight, vanishing like the sun at the approach of night. Journeying onward, he passed through prosperous villages, rich in grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, free from fear, and adorned with sacrificial posts. These villages were beautified by gardens and mango groves, blessed with abundant water, filled with contented and healthy people, and served by herds of cattle. Rāma traveled through the distinguished lands of the kings, where the chants of Brahmins echoed, riding in his chariot. Amidst this flourishing, joyful, and beautiful land, crowded with lovely gardens, the steadfast prince journeyed through the kingdom, a realm fit for royal enjoyment. At last, Rāghava beheld the divine Gaṅgā, flowing in three streams—holy, pure, free from weeds, and frequented by sages. Thus concludes this portion of the sacred journey, as told in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient Rāmāyaṇa.