As the evening descended upon the forest, Rāma, clad in an upper garment of bark, performed the twilight rites, facing west. For his meal, he took only water, brought to him with loving care by Lakṣmaṇa. When it was time to rest, Rāma lay down upon the bare earth; Lakṣmaṇa washed his feet and, together with Sītā, stood nearby, taking shelter under the spreading branches of a tree. Guha, too, remained vigilant. With his charioteer, he conversed quietly with Saumitri—Lakṣmaṇa—and kept watch through the night, bow in hand, determined to guard Rāma. Thus, the wise and illustrious son of Daśaratha, who had never known suffering and was accustomed to comfort, lay on the ground as the long night slowly passed. Now begins the fifty-first chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Guha, tormented by sorrow for his dear friend, spoke to Rāghava, who was awake and without deceit, and to Lakṣmaṇa: “O prince, a comfortable bed has been prepared for you; rest well upon it as you wish, and take comfort here. All these people are used to hardship, but you are suited for comfort. We will remain awake through the night to guard Kākutstha. Truly, there is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma; I speak truthfully, and swear to you by truth itself. By his favor, I hope to gain 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 protected by you, we have no fear here; we see only righteousness. 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 overpower in battle—see him now, lying comfortably on grass with Sītā. He who was obtained by mantras, austerity, and various efforts—this only son of Daśaratha, possessing noble qualities. 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 likewise my own mother—I do not expect any of them will survive this night. Perhaps my mother may live, out of concern for Śatrughna; but the sorrow that will destroy Kausalyā, the mother of a hero, is grievous indeed. “That city, once filled with devoted people and bringing joy to those 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, Kausalya will perish afterwards; 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 my father has passed away and that time has come, all those whose desires are fulfilled will perform the funeral rites for the king. “The city, with its lovely crossroads, well-divided roads, mansions and palaces, adorned by the finest courtesans, crowded with chariots, horses, and elephants, resounding with musical instruments, filled with every auspicious thing, and 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.” While the great-souled prince, afflicted with sorrow and lamenting, remained there, the night passed by. As Lakṣmaṇa, devoted to the people’s welfare, spoke thus truly, Guha, out of deep affection for his noble friend, shed tears, overwhelmed by grief, like an ailing elephant tormented by pain. Now begins the fifty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When the night had passed and morning had come, the illustrious Rāma spoke to Saumitri, Lakṣmaṇa of auspicious marks: “The time of sunrise has come, the blessed night has gone; look, dear one, the dark-plumed cuckoo is calling. And the cries of peacocks are heard resounding in the forest. Gentle one, let us cross the swift-flowing Jahnavi, which goes to the ocean.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Saumitri—the delight of his friends—summoned Guha and the charioteer, and stood before his brother. Hearing Rāma’s command and accepting it, the chief of the boatmen quickly called his attendants and spoke: “Bring here a well-equipped, sturdy, and swift boat, fitted with oars and ready for crossing.” Hearing this order, Guha’s great company of attendants brought a beautiful boat and reported to Guha. Thus, the night of sorrow and vigilance gave way to the dawn, as Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa prepared to cross the sacred river and continue their journey.