As Rāma journeyed onward, the auspicious night quietly gave way to dawn. With reverence, he worshipped the sacred morning and crossed the boundary of his kingdom, leaving behind all that was familiar. Swiftly, he traversed distant villages and lush, blossoming forests, passing through them with the speed of arrows loosed from the finest steeds. Along the way, the voices of the villagers reached his ears, their words carrying sorrow and reproach: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen prey to desire,” they lamented. “Alas, Kaikeyī is cruel and bound to evil ways, breaking all bounds with her harshness. She sends the righteous prince, wise, compassionate, and ever-diligent, into exile in the wild forest. How will Sītā, Janaka’s blessed daughter, who has known only happiness, now endure suffering? King Daśaratha, forsaking his beloved and blameless son for the sake of others, shows no affection.” Hearing these lamentations, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed onward, his resolve undiminished. Soon, he crossed the pure waters of the river Vedashrutī, moving toward the region where the great sage Agastya dwelled. After a long journey, he came to the cold-flowing Gomati river, its banks alive with cattle, and journeyed further toward the ocean’s direction. With his swift horses, Rāma crossed the Gomati, then traversed the Syandikā river, whose banks echoed with the calls of peacocks and swans. As they traveled, Rāma pointed out to Sītā the prosperous land once bestowed by King Manu upon Ikṣvāku, a realm flourishing and rich. Again and again, Rāma, his voice as melodious as a swan’s, spoke to his charioteer, reflecting on the forests by the Sarayū: “When shall I return to those blossoming woods by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, reunited with my mother and father? Though I do not long for the hunt excessively, there is no pleasure in the world like it, cherished by kings and sages alike. For in this world, hunting in the forest is a joy arranged for royal sages, desired by skilled archers at the proper time.” Understanding the prince’s thoughts, the descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke kindly to the charioteer, giving him instructions as they continued on their path. Thus ended that portion of their journey. Having crossed the delightful and vast expanse of Kosala, Rāma, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, joined his palms in respect and spoke to the charioteer as they neared Ayodhyā: “O best of cities, protected by the noble Kakutstha lineage, and to all the deities who dwell within you—I take my leave. When my exile is fulfilled and my debt to the king is paid, I will return to you, together with my mother and father.” With eyes reddened by tears, lifting his right arm, his face shadowed with sorrow, Rāma addressed the people of the land: “You have shown me all the compassion and kindness that was fitting. But long suffering is worse than evil—go now, and fulfill your purpose.” The people, their hearts heavy and their voices raised in lament, saluted the great soul and circumambulated him. Yet, unsatisfied in their longing, they watched as Rāghava departed from their sight, vanishing like the sun at nightfall. Continuing his journey, Rāma passed through prosperous villages, abundant with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, free from fear, and adorned with sacrificial posts. These villages were graced with gardens and mango groves, blessed with ample water, crowded with contented and healthy folk, and thriving herds of cattle. Riding in his chariot, the tiger among men crossed through distinguished lands, resounding with the chants of Brahmins. Amidst that joyful, flourishing, and beautiful kingdom, filled with lovely gardens and fit for royal enjoyment, Rāghava journeyed on. There, he beheld the divine Gaṅgā, flowing in three sacred streams—holy, pure, free from weeds, and frequented by sages. The river’s banks were adorned with splendid hermitages and, at the proper times, graced by joyous Apsarases. Sacred lakes attended her, and she was beautified by gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, as well as the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. The Gaṅgā’s shores were crowded with countless celestial playgrounds, adorned with tens of thousands of divine gardens, and famed as the divine lotus-lake, ascending to the heavens for the sake of the gods. In some places, the river laughed with the crashing of water, her smile pure as foam; elsewhere, her waters were braided or swirling with eddies. Sometimes 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 wide with sandy banks, elsewhere her shores were covered in pure, shining sand. Her banks echoed with the calls of swans and cranes, and the cries of chakravaka birds; she was always alive with the joyful songs of intoxicated birds. In some places she was adorned by riverside trees like garlands, elsewhere by blooming lotuses, and in other spots by clusters of lotus plants. Clusters of kumuda buds beautified her in some stretches; in others, she appeared as if intoxicated, scattered with the pollen of many flowers. Free from any muddiness, she gleamed with jewel-like clarity; her banks were frequented by wild elephants and the finest tuskers of the forest and the four directions. Thus did Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa journey onward, guided by virtue and destiny, through lands and rivers sacred and splendid, as their exile led them ever deeper into the heart of the forest.