To Guha, who had come forth with heartfelt words and gestures of devotion, Rāma, the son of Daśaratha, replied with warmth and gratitude. “You have truly honored us in every way,” he said, “by coming to us on foot and welcoming us with such affection. Your kindness fills us with joy.” Drawing Guha close and embracing him with his strong, graceful arms, Rāma spoke again: “It is by good fortune, Guha, that I see you safe and well, surrounded by your kin. I hope all is well with your kingdom, with your friends, and with your wealth. All that you have thoughtfully prepared for us, I accept in spirit, but I must refrain from receiving gifts. Know me now as one who wears only grass, bark, and deerskin, who lives on forest fruits and roots, devoted to dharma, dwelling here as an ascetic.” He continued gently, “All I require is fodder for the horses. By providing this, you will have honored me fully. These horses are dear to my father, King Daśaratha; caring for them will be your gift to me.” Hearing these words, Guha immediately ordered his men to bring water and fodder for the royal steeds without delay. As dusk settled, Rāma donned his garment of bark and, facing west, performed the evening twilight rites. For his meal, he took only water, brought to him by Lakṣmaṇa. When Rāma lay down upon the ground to rest, Lakṣmaṇa washed his feet and then, together with Sītā, stood nearby, seeking shelter under a tree. Guha, vigilant and mindful, stayed awake through the night with his charioteer, conversing quietly with Lakṣmaṇa. Armed with his bow, he kept watch to protect Rāma. Thus, the wise and illustrious son of Daśaratha—unaccustomed to hardship and long used to comfort—lay on the bare earth, while the night crept slowly by. As the next chapter unfolds, Guha, tormented by sorrow for his beloved friend, addressed Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, who were awake and sincere of heart. “Dear prince,” he said, “a comfortable bed has been prepared for you. Please rest well and take ease here. All of us are used to hardship, but you are meant for comfort. We shall remain awake through the night to guard you, O descendant of Kakutstha. Truly, there is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma—this I say with all my heart, and I swear it by truth itself. By your favor, I hope to gain great fame in this world, to attain righteousness, and to enjoy pure prosperity. Therefore, I will protect my dear friend Rāma as he lies here with Sītā, my bow in hand, surrounded by my kinsmen on all sides. There is nothing in this forest unknown to me; even if a great fourfold army came, we could overcome it.” Lakṣmaṇa replied with respect, “O faultless one, since you are protecting us, we have no fear here; we see only righteousness. But how could I find sleep, or even happiness, while the two sons of Daśaratha lie on the ground with Sītā? He whom neither gods nor asuras could overpower in battle now lies here, resting on grass with Sītā by his side. He, the only son of Daśaratha, gained by mantras, austerity, and great effort, full of noble qualities—now he dwells in exile. With him gone to the forest, the king will not survive for long; surely, the earth will soon become a widow. “The women have ceased their loud wailing, and I believe the royal palace now lies in silence. Kausalyā, the king, and my own mother—I do not think any of them will survive this night. Perhaps my mother may endure, out of concern for Śatrughna, but the sorrow that will destroy Kausalyā, the mother of a hero, is truly grievous. That city, once filled with devoted people and a joy to behold, 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. My father, having failed to fulfill his cherished wish of installing Rāma as king, will not survive. When he has passed away and that time arrives, all those whose desires have been fulfilled will perform his funeral rites. “The city, adorned with lovely crossroads, grand roads, mansions, and palaces, and graced by the finest courtesans; crowded with chariots, horses, and elephants; resounding with music, filled with every auspicious thing, and teeming with joyful, prosperous people; rich in gardens and parks, abundant in festivals—may its people move about happily in my father’s royal city. If only King Daśaratha might live, and after our return from exile, 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…” While the great-souled prince, weighed down by sorrow and lamentation, spoke thus, the night slowly passed. As he, ever mindful of the people’s welfare, spoke these heartfelt truths, Guha, overwhelmed by deep affection for his noble friend, shed tears—his heart wracked with grief, like an ailing elephant tormented by pain.