Guha, the devoted chief of the Niṣādas, welcomed Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā with heartfelt hospitality. He offered them a variety of foods to eat, enjoy, and taste, fine drinks, the softest beds, and the best fodder for their horses. With genuine affection, Guha spoke to Rāghava, eager to serve and honor his guests. Rāma replied to Guha with warmth and gratitude, “You have honored us in every way—by coming to us on foot, by your affectionate welcome, and by your concern.” Embracing Guha with his strong arms, Rāma continued, “By good fortune, Guha, I see you well and safe among your kinsmen. Is all well with your kingdom, your friends, and your wealth? As for the generous offerings you have prepared, I accept them all in spirit, but I do not partake in receiving gifts.” Rāma explained his position further, “Know me now as one who wears only grass, bark, and deerskin, living on fruits and roots, devoted to righteousness, and dwelling in the forest like an ascetic. I require only fodder for the horses—nothing else. By providing this alone, you will have honored me fully. These horses are dear to my father, King Daśaratha. By caring for them, you honor me as well.” Hearing this, Guha immediately ordered his men to bring water and fodder for the royal horses, ensuring they would be well cared for. As evening fell, Rāma, dressed in a garment of bark, performed his twilight rites facing west. He took only water as his meal, which Lakṣmaṇa himself brought to him. When it was time to rest, Rāma lay down upon the ground. Lakṣmaṇa washed his brother’s feet, and then, together with Sītā, stood nearby, finding shelter beneath a tree. Guha, too, remained vigilant through the night. With his charioteer and his bow in hand, he spoke with Saumitri (Lakṣmaṇa), determined to keep watch and protect Rāma. Thus, the wise and illustrious son of Daśaratha—who until now had known only comfort and had never suffered hardship—lay upon the bare earth as the long night slowly passed. Now begins the fifty-first chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Throughout the night, Guha was tormented by sorrow for his beloved friend. He spoke to Rāma, who was awake and guileless, and to Lakṣmaṇa, “Dear prince, we have prepared a comfortable bed for you. Please rest well upon it and take comfort here. All these people are accustomed to hardship, but you are suited for comfort. We will remain awake through the night to guard Kākutstha (Rāma). Truly, there is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma. I swear by truth itself. By your favor, I hope to gain great fame, abundant righteousness, and pure prosperity in this world. Therefore, I will protect my dear friend Rāma, as he lies here with Sītā, holding my bow in hand, together with my kinsmen, on all sides. There is nothing unknown to me in this forest where I always roam—even if a great fourfold army came, we could overcome it.” Lakṣmaṇa replied, “O faultless one, since we are being protected by you, we have no fear here; we see only righteousness. But how could I find sleep, or even life or happiness, while the two sons of Daśaratha lie on the ground with Sītā? He whom neither gods nor asuras could defeat in battle now lies upon grass with Sītā. He who was obtained by mantras, austerity, and many efforts—this only son of Daśaratha, possessing noble qualities—now endures exile.” Lakṣmaṇa’s heart was heavy with sorrow as he continued, “With him gone to the forest, the king will not last long; surely, the earth will soon become a widow. The women, exhausted, have ceased their loud wailing; I think, dear one, that the royal palace has now fallen silent. Kausalyā, the king, and my own mother—I do not expect any of them will survive this night. Perhaps my mother might live for the sake of Śatrughna, but the sorrow that will destroy Kausalyā, the mother of a hero, is grievous indeed.” He spoke of Ayodhyā with longing, “That city, once filled with devoted people and bringing joy to all who beheld it, will perish, afflicted by the king’s misfortune. How will the great king’s life-breath remain, when he cannot see his eldest, beloved, noble son? When the king is lost, Kausalyā will perish after him, and then my mother too will meet her end. Having failed to fulfill his cherished wish—having not installed Rāma in the kingdom—my father will perish. When that time comes and my father has passed away, all those whose desires are fulfilled will perform the funeral rites for the king.” Lakṣmaṇa recalled the glory of Ayodhyā, “The city, with its lovely crossroads, great roads, mansions, and palaces, adorned by the finest courtesans, crowded with chariots, horses, and elephants, resounding with music, filled with every auspicious thing, teeming with joyful, prosperous people, rich in gardens and parks, abundant in gatherings and festivals—the people will move about happily in my father’s royal city. If only King Daśaratha might live, and after our return from the forest, we might see that great-souled, virtuous man again. If, together with the truthful and unharmed one, we might enter Ayodhyā again after the forest exile is ended.” Thus, as the great-souled prince, afflicted with sorrow and lamentation, remained there, the night slowly passed, carrying with it the weight of longing and love for home.