As night settled over the forest, Rāma spoke with quiet confidence to his companions. “There is nothing unknown to me in this forest where I wander freely,” he said. “Even if a mighty fourfold army were to appear, we could overcome it.” Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted, replied, “O faultless one, since you protect us, we have no fear here. In your company, we see only righteousness.” Yet, Lakṣmaṇa’s heart was heavy. “How could I find sleep, or even life or happiness, while you and Sītā, the sons of Daśaratha, lie upon the bare earth?” He gazed at his elder brother, his voice filled with emotion. “He whom neither gods nor asuras could overpower in battle now lies on the grass with Sītā. He, the only son of Daśaratha, obtained through mantras, austerity, and many efforts, renowned for his noble qualities—see how fate has brought him here.” Lakṣmaṇa’s sorrow deepened as he thought of Ayodhyā. “With you gone to the forest, the king will not endure long. Surely, the earth itself will soon become a widow. The women of the palace, exhausted, have fallen silent; I believe the royal palace is now shrouded in stillness. Kausalyā, the king, and 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 grief that will destroy Kausalyā, the mother of a hero, is unbearable.” He remembered the city he loved. “That city, once filled with devoted people and joy, 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 soon after, and then my own mother will follow. My father, having failed to fulfill his cherished wish and not having installed you as king, will not survive. When his time comes, those whose desires are fulfilled will perform his funeral rites.” Lakṣmaṇa’s voice grew wistful as he described Ayodhyā: “The city, with its lovely crossroads, broad roads, mansions and palaces, adorned by the finest courtesans, crowded with chariots, horses, and elephants, resounding with music, filled with joyful, prosperous people, rich in gardens and parks, abundant in gatherings and festivals—the people moved 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 exile is ended.” Afflicted with sorrow and lamenting, the great-souled prince remained there, and the night slowly passed. As Rāma, ever devoted to the people’s welfare, spoke these heartfelt words, Guha, moved by deep affection for his noble friend, wept—overwhelmed by grief, like a great elephant suffering in pain. With the arrival of dawn, the fifty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa began. When morning came, the illustrious Rāma spoke to Saumitri, his dear Lakṣmaṇa, marked by auspicious signs. “The time of sunrise has come, the blessed night has gone. Look, dear one, the dark-plumed cuckoo is calling.” The forest echoed with the resounding cries of peacocks. “Let us cross the swift-flowing Jahnavi, which rushes to the ocean,” Rāma said gently. Hearing Rāma’s words, Saumitri, ever the delight of his friends, summoned Guha and the charioteer Sumantra, and stood before his brother. At Rāma’s command, Guha, chief of the boatmen, quickly called his attendants and spoke, “Bring a well-equipped, sturdy, and swift boat, fitted with oars and ready for crossing.” Obeying Guha, his attendants brought a beautiful boat and announced its arrival. With joined palms, Guha said to Rāghava, “Here is the boat, O lord. What more shall I do for you?” He added, “This boat, O tiger among men, is equal to the chariots of the gods and ready to carry you across the river that flows to the ocean. Ascend, O steadfast one!” Rāma, radiant in might, replied warmly, “My wish has been fulfilled by you, Guha. Let us quickly embark.” Then, fastening their quivers and girding on their swords, the two sons of the Rāghu line, with Sītā, approached the Gaṅgā. Sumantra, the charioteer, approached Rāma with humility and joined palms. “What shall I do?” he asked. Rāma, touching Sumantra with his right hand, said gently, “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.” Sumantra, sorrowful at being dismissed, spoke to the lion among men, the 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. Yet, dwelling in the forest with Vaidehī and your brother, O hero, you will surely attain your goal, as if conquering the three worlds.” Thus, with hearts full of emotion and duty, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa prepared to cross the sacred river, guided by righteousness and the love of those who cherished them.