As the merchants’ wares lay untouched, joy faded, and shelter vanished, Ayodhyā became desolate—like the night sky stripped of stars. The city was steeped in grief for Rāma; its women mourned as if for a lost son or brother, their hearts aching for their own children, yet their sorrow for Rāma was even greater. Ayodhyā fell silent, like a vast ocean whose waters had withdrawn. Songs, festivals, dances, and music were stilled; happiness had fled, and the markets stood closed. Thus concluded the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in Vālmīki’s ancient epic. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, traveled far through the remainder of the night, his mind ever fixed on his father’s command. As the auspicious night gave way to dawn, Rāma worshipped the sacred morning and crossed the boundary of the kingdom. Swiftly he passed villages with distant borders and blooming forests, viewing them as he went, like arrows released from excellent horses. He heard the voices of villagers along his route, lamenting, “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, Kaikeyī is cruel 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, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed on. He crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose pure waters flowed toward the region inhabited by the sage Agastya. After a long journey, he crossed the river Gomati, its cold waters and banks frequented by cattle, heading toward the ocean. With swift horses, Rāma crossed the Gomati and then traversed the Syandikā river, which echoed with cries of peacocks and swans. Rāma showed Vaidehī—the noble Sītā—the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, filled with thriving realms. Again and again, the illustrious Rāma, whose voice was as graceful as a drunken swan, spoke to his 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 desired by men skilled with the bow at the proper time.” Understanding this, the descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke sweetly to the charioteer and set out on their path, giving instructions. Thus ended the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in Vālmīki’s first poem. Having traversed the delightful and vast Kosala, Rāma, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with palms joined in reverence, spoke to the charioteer as they headed toward 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.” Then, his eyes reddened with tears, raising his right arm and his face sorrowful, Rāma 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, lamenting terribly, saluted the great soul and circumambulated him, standing here and there, unsatisfied in their longing. As they mourned, Rāghava departed from their sight, like the sun at the approach of night. Rāma then saw prosperous villages, filled with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, free from fear, beautiful and surrounded by sacrificial posts. He beheld gardens and mango groves, blessed with abundant water, crowded with contented and healthy people, and served by herds of cattle. Passing through these distinguished lands of the kings, resounding with the chants of Brahmins, Rāma journeyed in his chariot. Amidst this joyful, flourishing, and beautiful land, crowded with lovely gardens, the steadfast prince traveled through the kingdom, fit for the enjoyment of kings. There, Rāghava beheld the divine Gaṅgā, flowing in three streams—holy, pure, free from weeds, and frequented by sages. The river was adorned by splendid hermitages nearby and graced by joyous Apsarases at the proper time, attended by lakes. She was beautified by gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, and constantly attended by the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. Crowded with hundreds of divine playgrounds and adorned with tens of thousands of celestial gardens, she was famed as the divine lotus-lake, ascending to the heavens for the sake of the gods. At some places, the river laughed with the crashing of water, her smile pure as foam; elsewhere, her waters were braided, and in other spots adorned with swirling eddies. In some places she was calm and deep, elsewhere agitated by swift currents; here she resounded with a profound roar, there with a terrifying noise.