As Rāma departed from Ayodhyā, the women of the city were overwhelmed by grief. Their sorrow for Rāma was even greater than the pain they felt for their own sons or brothers sent away; they wept, miserable and bewildered, hearts aching for their children, yet their anguish for Rāma surpassed all. The once vibrant city of Ayodhya fell silent, like a vast ocean whose waters had receded. The songs, festivals, dances, and music faded away; joy vanished, and the bustling markets closed, leaving the city bereft of its usual life. Thus ends the forty-eighth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Rāma, the tiger among men, traveled a great distance during the remainder of the night, his mind ever recalling 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, observing them as he went, like arrows shot from excellent horses. As he journeyed, Rāma heard the voices of villagers echoing through the dawn: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, today Kaikeyī is cruel, sinful, and bound to evil; she has broken boundaries and acts in harsh ways. 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 enjoyed happiness, now experience 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 of the villagers, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed onward, undeterred. He crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose waters were pure, proceeding toward the region inhabited by the sage Agastya. After traveling for a long time, he crossed the river Gomati, its cold waters and banks frequented by cattle, heading toward the ocean. With swift horses, Rāma traversed the Syandikā river, resounding with cries of peacocks and swans. Rāma pointed out to Sītā the prosperous land once given by King Manu to Ikṣvāku, filled with thriving realms. Repeatedly addressing the charioteer, Rāma, whose voice was as melodious as a drunken swan, spoke: “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 is desired by men skilled with the bow at the proper time.” Understanding his purpose, the descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke sweetly to the charioteer and set out on the path, giving instructions as they went. Thus ends the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the first poem, the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Having traversed the delightful and vast Kosala, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with joined palms, 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.” With eyes reddened by tears, Rāma raised his right arm, his face full of sorrow, and 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 scattered here and there. As they lamented, unsatisfied in their longing, Rāghava departed from their sight, like the sun at the approach of night. Journeying onward, he saw prosperous villages filled with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, free from any 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. The tiger among men passed through distinguished lands of kings, resounding with the chants of Brahmins, in his chariot. In the midst of that joyful, flourishing, and beautiful land, crowded with lovely gardens, the best among the steadfast journeyed 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, graced by joyous Apsarases at the proper time, and attended by lakes. It was beautified by gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, and constantly attended by the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. Hundreds of divine playgrounds crowded its banks, adorned with tens of thousands of celestial gardens, 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. In some stretches, gods bathed in her waters, and she shone with spotless lotuses; at times she spread out in broad sandbanks, elsewhere her shores were covered in pure sand.