With the first light of dawn shimmering on the sacred waters of the Gaṅgā, Guha, the devoted friend of Rāma, approached the prince with hands joined in reverence. “O lord,” he said humbly, “here is the boat, ready for your journey. What more can I do to serve you?” His voice was filled with earnestness as he continued, “This boat, O tiger among men, is fit for the gods themselves. It will carry you safely across this river that flows to the ocean. Please, ascend it, O steadfast one!” Rāma, radiant in strength and resolve, replied warmly to Guha, “You have fulfilled my every wish. Let us not delay—let us embark at once.” With those words, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa fastened their quivers, girded their swords, and, together with Sītā, made their way toward the riverbank. As they prepared for departure, Sumantra, the loyal charioteer, approached Rāma with humility, his palms pressed together. “What would you have me do, my lord?” he asked, his voice trembling with devotion. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, touched Sumantra gently with his right hand and spoke kindly, “Sumantra, it is time for you to return. Go quickly, and always remain attentive to the king. My task here is done. Turn back now; I will enter the great forest on foot, leaving the chariot behind.” Hearing these words, Sumantra’s heart was heavy with sorrow. With anguish in his voice, he addressed Rāma, the scion 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. If one such as you can fall into misfortune, then what fruit is there in asceticism, in study, or even in gentleness and honesty? Yet, O hero, I know that by living in the forest with Vaidehī and your brother, you will surely attain your goal, as if conquering the three worlds.” Sumantra’s grief deepened as he lamented, “We are truly ruined, Rāma, deceived by her—by Kaikeyī. We will fall under her power and share in her sorrow.” Overcome, Sumantra wept bitterly, as if mourning for himself, his eyes following Rāma as he moved farther away. When his tears at last subsided, Rāma purified himself with water and spoke again to Sumantra, his words gentle and comforting. “Among the Ikṣvākus, there is no friend equal to you. Please, do all you can so that King Daśaratha does not grieve for me. The king is afflicted by sorrow and old age, weighed down by desire—therefore, I entrust this task to you. Whatever the great king commands, especially for the pleasure and desire of Kaikeyī, must be carried out without hesitation. This is why kings rule: so their will is not hindered in any undertaking. If the king remains truthful and does not succumb to grief, then, Sumantra, act accordingly. “When you greet the king—who is aged, noble, and self-controlled—speak these words from me, to him who has not known suffering: Neither I, nor Lakṣmaṇa, nor Maithilī grieve or lament that we have left Ayodhyā, or that we will dwell in the forest. When fourteen years are completed, you will see Lakṣmaṇa, Sītā, and me returning again and again. “After speaking thus to the king and my mother, Sumantra, convey my words also to the other queens, including Kaikeyī. Offer my wishes for health to Kausalyā, and give her my respectful salutations, as well as those of Sītā, Lakṣmaṇa, and myself. Tell the king to summon Bharata quickly; and if he has already arrived, he should be established in the position the king desires. Embrace Bharata and anoint him as heir-apparent; then the sorrow caused by our distress will not overcome you. Tell Bharata that as he behaves toward the king, so too should he act toward all the mothers, without distinction. Just as he honors Kaikeyī and Sumitrā equally, he should especially honor Queen Kausalyā, my mother. With affection for my father and the prospect of royal succession, Bharata can bring happiness to both worlds.” Though his heart was heavy, Sumantra listened to all of Rāma’s words and, moved by affection, replied to Kakutstha, “If I speak without proper formality, forgive me, for it is only out of love and devotion. How can I return to Ayodhyā, deprived of you, as if I were a son grieving for separation from his father? When the people see my chariot without you, Rāma, even though it still bears your name, the city itself may be torn apart at the sight. The city will surely fall into misery upon seeing the empty chariot, with only the charioteer remaining, like an army whose heroes have been slain in battle. “Though you reside far away, the people, holding your image in their hearts, will surely begin fasting today, thinking only of you. You have seen, Rāma, how, during your exile, the people have become distressed and agitated, their hearts weary with grief for you. When they see me return without you, their cries of distress will be a hundred times greater than before. “What can I possibly say to your mother? Should I tell her her son has gone to his uncle’s house and not to grieve? Even if it were untrue, I could not utter such words; how could I speak this painful truth? And what of your kinsmen, who obey my command? How will the noble horses tell them that the chariot is bereft of you?” Thus, amid sorrow and steadfast love, the faithful companions stood on the banks of the Gaṅgā, their hearts full, as Rāma prepared to cross into exile, upheld by duty, and Sumantra prepared to return to Ayodhyā, carrying Rāma’s words and hopes for the future.