In the heart of Ayodhya, the royal city shone with splendor. Its crossroads were lovely, its great roads well laid out, and its streets graced by grand mansions and palaces. The city was adorned by the finest courtesans, and its thoroughfares bustled with chariots, horses, and elephants. The air was alive with the sounds of musical instruments, and every auspicious sign seemed to bless the city. Joyful, prosperous people filled Ayodhya, moving about in happiness, their lives enriched by abundant gardens, parks, gatherings, and festivals. Truly, it was a place of delight, and the people flourished in the benevolent rule of King Dasharatha. Rama, his heart filled with longing, reflected on this city. “If only King Dasharatha may live,” he thought, “and after our return from the forest, we might see that great-souled, virtuous man again. If only, together with the truthful and unharmed, we could enter Ayodhya again once our exile is ended.” Thus, the great-souled prince, afflicted with sorrow and lamenting his fate, spent the night in deep thought. As Rama spoke thus, his words full of care for the people, Guha—his devoted friend—was overcome with emotion. Out of deep affection, Guha wept, his grief pouring forth like an ailing elephant tormented by pain. Thus passed the night, and with the coming of dawn, the fifty-second chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, begins. When morning arrived and the sun’s rays touched the earth, the illustrious Rama turned to his brother Lakshmana, Saumitri, who bore auspicious marks. “The time of sunrise has come, dear one,” he said gently. “The blessed night has passed. Listen—the dark-plumed cuckoo is calling, and the cries of peacocks resound through the forest. Gentle brother, let us cross the swift-flowing Jahnavi, the river that journeys to the ocean.” Hearing Rama’s words, Saumitri, ever the delight of his friends, summoned Guha and the charioteer and stood ready before his brother. Guha, upon hearing Rama’s command, quickly called his attendants and instructed them, “Bring a well-equipped, sturdy, and swift boat, fitted with oars and ready for crossing.” Guha’s attendants promptly brought a beautiful boat and reported to their chief. Approaching Rama with joined palms, Guha spoke with reverence: “Here is the boat, O lord. What more can I do for you?” He added, “This boat, O tiger among men, is equal to the chariots of the gods. It stands ready to carry you across the river that flows to the sea. Please, steadfast one, ascend!” Rama, radiant in might, replied warmly to Guha: “My wish has been fulfilled by you. Let us quickly embark.” Then, fastening their quivers and girding on their swords, Rama and Lakshmana, with Sita by their side, made their way toward the sacred Gaṅgā. At that moment, the charioteer Sumantra approached Rama, who was ever mindful of righteousness. With humility and joined palms, Sumantra asked, “What shall I do?” Rama, son of Dasharatha, touched Sumantra affectionately with his right hand and spoke: “Sumantra, quickly return again. Be ever attentive before the king.” He added, “Turn back, for my task is done. Leaving the chariot, I will go to the great forest on foot.” Seeing himself thus dismissed, the sorrowful Sumantra said to Rama, 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 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. We are truly ruined, Rama—we who have been deceived by her. We shall fall under the power of the sinful Kaikeyī and share in her sorrow.” Thus lamenting, Sumantra grieved as if for himself, weeping for a long time as he saw Rama receding into the distance. When his tears had finally ceased, Rama, having purified himself with water, spoke again and again with gentle words to the pure-hearted charioteer. “Among the Ikṣvākus, I see no friend equal to you, Sumantra. Act so that King Dasharatha does not grieve for me. The lord of the earth, his mind afflicted by sorrow and age, weighed down by desire—this is why I say this to you. Whatever that great-souled king commands, for the sake of Kaikeyī’s pleasure and desire, must be done without hesitation. For this reason, kings rule their kingdoms: so that their will is not hindered in any of their undertakings. If the great king does not fall into falsehood, nor is he overcome by sorrow, then, Sumantra, act in that same way.” Rama continued, “Having greeted the king—who is aged, noble, and has mastered his senses—speak these words on my behalf, to him who has not known suffering. Neither do I grieve, nor does Lakshmana, nor Maithili; nor do we lament that we have left Ayodhya, or that we will dwell in the forest. When the fourteen years are completed, you will soon see Lakshmana, myself, and Sita returning again and again.” He instructed further, “Having spoken thus to the king and my mother, Sumantra, also convey my words repeatedly to the other queens, including Kaikeyī. Offer my wishes for health to Kausalya, and give her my respectful salutations, as well as those of Sita, myself, and Lakshmana, as spoken by us. Also tell the great king to summon Bharata quickly; and if Bharata has already arrived, he should be established in the position favored by the king.” Thus, with hearts heavy yet resolute, Rama and his companions prepared to cross the sacred river and begin their journey into the forest, upholding the honor of their lineage and the will of their beloved father.