He who was born to King Daśaratha as the fruit of sacred mantras, rigorous austerities, and countless devoted efforts—this only son, endowed with noble virtues—was now bound for the forest. With his departure, it seemed certain that the king would not survive much longer; soon, the very earth would become a widow, bereft of her lord. The palace, once echoing with the wails of grieving women, had now fallen into a heavy silence, as their cries, exhausted by sorrow, had faded away. Bharata, reflecting on the fate of those he loved, confided to his dear one that he did not expect Kausalyā, the king, or even his own mother to endure through the night. Perhaps his mother might cling to life out of concern for Śatrughna, but the sorrow that would engulf Kausalyā, mother of a mighty hero, would surely be too great to bear. The city itself, once vibrant with devotion and joy, would languish and perish, struck down by the king’s misfortune. How, Bharata wondered, could the great king’s life-breath persist when he could no longer behold his eldest, beloved, and virtuous son? When the king passed, Kausalyā would not long survive, and then his own mother too would follow them in death. The king, unable to fulfill his heart’s cherished wish of installing Rāma as the heir to the throne, would die with his longing unfulfilled. When that fateful time arrived and the king had departed, those whose own desires had been realized would perform his funeral rites. Ayodhyā, the city with its splendid crossroads, broad and orderly avenues, grand mansions and palaces, and the beauty of its finest courtesans, would change. Once bustling with chariots, horses, and elephants, resounding with music and filled with auspicious sights and prosperous, joyful people, Ayodhyā was rich in gardens, parks, gatherings, and festivals. Its citizens would continue to move about in happiness, but the shadow of loss would linger. Bharata’s heart ached with a single hope: if only King Daśaratha might live until their return from exile, so that once again they might behold that great-souled, virtuous man. If only, together with the unharmed and truthful Rāma, they could re-enter Ayodhyā after their time in the forest had ended. As the noble prince, weighed down by sorrow and lamentation, remained there through the night, time slowly passed. While he spoke these heartfelt and honest words, ever devoted to the welfare of the people, Guha, his loyal friend, was overcome with grief. Tears streamed down Guha’s face, his heart wracked like an ailing elephant tormented by pain. Thus concludes the fifty-first sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When the night had finally given way to dawn, the illustrious Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, his dear brother Saumitri, marked by auspicious signs. “The sun has risen, dearest one, and the blessed night has ended. Listen—the dark-plumed cuckoo calls, and the cries of peacocks resound through the forest. Come, gentle one, let us cross the swift-flowing Jahnavi, which makes its way to the ocean.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Lakṣmaṇa, ever the delight of his friends, summoned Guha and the charioteer and stood ready before his brother. Guha, understanding Rāma’s intent, quickly called his boatmen and issued the command: “Bring here a strong, well-equipped, and swift boat, fitted with oars and ready for crossing.” At once, Guha’s devoted attendants brought forth a beautiful boat and reported to him. With folded hands, Guha addressed Rāma: “Here is the boat, O lord. What more can I do to serve you?” He added, “This boat, O tiger among men, is fit for the chariots of the gods and ready to carry you across the river that flows to the sea. Ascend, O steadfast one!” Rāma, radiant with might, replied warmly, “My wish has been fulfilled by you, Guha. Let us embark quickly.” Then, fastening their quivers and girding their swords, the two brothers, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, along with Sītā, made their way to the banks of the Gaṅgā. At that moment, the charioteer Sumantra approached Rāma, the knower of righteousness, and with humility and joined palms, asked, “What shall I do, my lord?” Rāma, touching Sumantra with his right hand, spoke kindly: “Sumantra, quickly return to the city and be ever attentive in the presence of the king.” He instructed, “Turn back, for my task is done. Leaving the chariot behind, I will now go on foot into the great forest.” Hearing these words, the sorrowful Sumantra, his heart heavy, replied to Rāma, the tiger among men and 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 cannot believe there is any fruit in asceticism, or 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. We are truly ruined, Rāma, deceived by her; we shall fall under the power of sinful Kaikeyī and share in her sorrow.” Thus lamenting, Sumantra wept bitterly for a long time, grieving as if for himself, as he watched Rāma depart into the distance. When at last his tears subsided, Rāma, after performing a purification with water, spoke gentle, reassuring words to the pure-hearted charioteer, repeating them again and again: “Among the Ikṣvākus, I see no friend equal to you. Act in such a way that King Daśaratha does not grieve for me.” In this way, the story flows onward, filled with sorrow, steadfast love, and the noble resolve of Rāma and his companions as they journeyed into the unknown.