As the night settled upon the forest, Guha, the loyal friend of Rāma, remained vigilant. With his charioteer at his side, he spoke quietly with Saumitri—Lakṣmaṇa—and, armed with his bow, kept watch throughout the long hours, determined to guard Rāma from any harm. Rāma, the wise and illustrious son of Daśaratha, who had never known suffering and was accustomed to royal comforts, now lay upon the ground. The night, heavy and slow, crept onward as he rested. Guha, his heart troubled by sorrow for his brother, approached Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, who were awake and sincere. He addressed them warmly, “Dear prince, this comfortable bed has been prepared for you; rest well upon it as you wish and find comfort here. All these people with me are used to hardship, but you are suited for comfort. We will remain awake through the night to guard Kākutstha, for there is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma. I speak this truthfully, and swear to you by truth itself.” Guha continued, expressing his heartfelt devotion: “By Rāma’s 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 with gratitude, “O faultless one, since we are being 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.” Lakṣmaṇa’s thoughts turned to Ayodhyā and their family. “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 that 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.” He lamented further, “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.” Lakṣmaṇa recalled the beauty and prosperity of Ayodhyā: “The city, with its lovely crossroads, well-divided great roads, mansions and palaces, adorned by the finest courtesans; crowded with chariots, horses, and elephants, resounding with the noise of 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.” As Lakṣmaṇa, afflicted with sorrow and lamenting, spoke these words, the night passed. Guha, deeply moved by his noble friend’s suffering, wept silent tears, overwhelmed by grief, like an ailing elephant tormented by pain. When dawn broke and the morning light touched the forest, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, his brother 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. Guha, hearing Rāma’s command and accepting it, called the chief of the boatmen, who in turn summoned his attendants and instructed them, “Bring here a well-equipped, sturdy, and swift boat, fitted with oars and ready for crossing.” Guha’s attendants quickly brought a beautiful boat and reported to Guha. Then Guha, with joined palms, addressed Rāma, “Here is the boat, O lord; what more shall I do for you?” He added, “This boat, O tiger among men, equal to the chariots of the gods, is ready to carry you across the river that flows to the ocean; ascend it, O steadfast one!” Thus, as the night’s sorrow gave way to the dawn’s hope, Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā prepared to cross the sacred river, surrounded by the loving care and devotion of Guha and his companions.