As night settled over the forest, Guha, the chief of the Niṣādas, stood watchful and resolute. His heart was filled with devotion toward Rāma, who now lay resting with Sītā by his side. Guha vowed to protect his dear friend, holding his bow ready and surrounded by his kinsmen on every side. He spoke with confidence, declaring that nothing in this forest was unknown to him, for he wandered its paths constantly. Even if a mighty fourfold army were to arrive, Guha assured Lakṣmaṇa, they would not be overcome. Lakṣmaṇa, hearing Guha’s words, addressed him with reverence: “O faultless one, since you are guarding us, we feel no fear here. We see only righteousness in your actions.” Yet in his heart, Lakṣmaṇa’s concern ran deep. How could he find rest, or even happiness, while the two sons of Daśaratha, Rāma and himself, lay on the bare ground with Sītā? Lakṣmaṇa gazed at Rāma, reflecting on his brother’s greatness. Here was one whom neither gods nor asuras could defeat in battle, now lying peacefully on grass beside Sītā. Rāma, the only son of Daśaratha, born of mantras, austerity, and devoted effort, possessed every noble quality. Lakṣmaṇa feared for their father, the king, believing that with Rāma gone to the forest, the king would not survive long and the earth herself would soon become a widow. He imagined the palace, once echoing with the cries of grieving women, now fallen silent in exhaustion. Lakṣmaṇa doubted that Kausalyā, the king, or even his own mother would survive the night. Perhaps his mother might endure, for the sake of Śatrughna, but the sorrow that would destroy Kausalyā, the mother of a hero, seemed unbearable. Lakṣmaṇa lamented the fate of Ayodhyā, once filled with devoted people and joy, now destined to perish under the weight of the king’s misfortune. How, he wondered, could the king’s life continue when he could no longer see his eldest, beloved, noble son? When the king passed away, Kausalyā would perish soon after, and then Lakṣmaṇa’s own mother would follow. Lakṣmaṇa grieved that his father would die, having failed to fulfill his cherished wish of installing Rāma as king. When that time came, those whose desires were met would perform the funeral rites for Daśaratha. He pictured Ayodhyā’s beautiful crossroads, grand roads, mansions, palaces, and courtesans; the city, crowded with chariots, horses, elephants, and filled with music and prosperity; its gardens and parks, its festivals and gatherings—he hoped the people would continue to move about happily in his father’s city. Lakṣmaṇa fervently wished that King Daśaratha might survive, so that after their return from the forest, they could see that virtuous, great-souled man again. If only, together with the truthful and unharmed Rāma, they might enter Ayodhyā once more after their exile ended. While Lakṣmaṇa, afflicted with sorrow and lamenting, remained there, the night slowly passed. As he spoke, devoted to the welfare of the people, Guha was overcome with grief for his noble friend; tears flowed from his eyes, like an elephant suffering in pain. Thus ended the fifty-first sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. When dawn broke and morning arrived, the illustrious Rāma addressed Saumitri, his brother Lakṣmaṇa, who bore auspicious marks. “The time of sunrise has come, dear one; the blessed night has passed. Listen, the dark-plumed cuckoo is calling, and the cries of peacocks resound throughout the forest. Gentle one, let us cross the swift-flowing Jahnavi, which journeys to the ocean.” Upon hearing Rāma’s words, Saumitri, the delight of his friends, summoned Guha and the charioteer, Sumantra, and stood before Rāma. Guha, accepting Rāma’s command, quickly called the chief of the boatmen and his attendants, instructing them to bring a sturdy, well-equipped, and swift boat fitted with oars, ready for crossing. Guha’s attendants soon brought a beautiful boat and reported to their chief. Guha, with joined palms, spoke to Rāghava: “Here is the boat, O lord; what else may 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!” Rāma, radiant in might, replied to Guha: “My wish has been fulfilled by you. Let us quickly embark.” Then, fastening their quivers and girding their swords, the two Rāghavas, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with Sītā, made their way toward the Gaṅgā. The charioteer Sumantra approached Rāma, who was ever righteous, and with humility and joined palms asked, “What shall I do?” Rāma, the son of Daśaratha, touched Sumantra with his excellent right hand and said, “Sumantra, quickly return again; be ever attentive before the king. Turn back, for my task is done. Leaving the chariot, I will go to the great forest on foot.” Seeing himself dismissed, the sorrowful Sumantra spoke to Rāma, descendant of Ikṣvāku: “No one in this world has ever done what you are doing—dwelling in the forest with your wife and brother, as if you were an ordinary man. I do not believe there is any fruit in asceticism, or in study, or even in gentleness and honesty, if you have come to such misfortune.” Thus, in the early morning, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa prepared to cross the river, leaving behind their faithful companions and stepping forward into the unknown, guided by righteousness and devotion.