Rāma, radiant in his strength and resolve, turned to Guha and spoke with warmth, “My wish has been fulfilled by you; let us quickly embark.” With that, Rāma and Lakshmana, the two noble sons of the Raghus, fastened their quivers and girded their swords. Alongside Sītā, they made their way towards the sacred Gaṅgā, ready to cross into the unknown of the forest. As they prepared to depart, Sumantra, the devoted charioteer, approached Rāma with humility, his hands joined in reverence. He asked, “What shall I do?” Rāma, the son of Daśaratha and knower of dharma, gently touched Sumantra with his right hand and replied, “Sumantra, quickly return again; be ever attentive before the king.” He instructed further, “Turn back, for my task is done. Leaving the chariot, I will go to the great forest on foot.” Hearing himself dismissed, Sumantra’s heart was heavy with sorrow. He addressed Rāma, the tiger among men and descendant of Ikṣvāku, saying, “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.” Sumantra’s grief deepened. “We are truly ruined, Rāma, we who have been deceived by her; we shall fall under the power of the sinful Kaikeyī and share in her sorrow.” Lamenting thus, Sumantra wept for a long time, grieving as if for himself, when he saw Rāma departing far away. When his tears had ceased, Rāma purified himself by touching water and spoke sweet, comforting words to the pure-hearted charioteer again and again. “Among the Ikṣvākus I see no friend equal to you; act so that King Daśaratha does not grieve for me. The lord of the earth, afflicted by sorrow and old age, weighed down by desire—therefore 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.” Rāma 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 Sumantra further, “Having spoken thus to the king and my mother, also convey my words repeatedly to the other queens, including Kaikeyi. Convey my wishes for health to Kausalya, and offer 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. Embrace Bharata and anoint him as heir-apparent; then the sorrow born from our distress will not overcome you. Bharata should also be told: as you conduct yourself towards the king, so should you behave towards all the mothers, without distinction. Just as you regard Kaikeyi and Sumitra equally, so too should you especially honor Queen Kausalya, who is my mother. With affection for my father and expectation of the royal succession, you are able to bring happiness to both worlds.” Though distressed by sorrow, Sumantra listened carefully to all these words. Out of affection, he addressed Rāma, saying, “If, out of affection and unwavering devotion, I speak without proper formality, you ought to forgive these words. How can I return to that city, deprived of you, as if it were a son overwhelmed by grief at separation from his father? When the people see my chariot without Rama—even if it still bears your name—the city itself may be torn apart at the sight of the chariot without Rama. The city will surely fall into misery upon seeing this empty chariot, with only the charioteer remaining, like an army whose heroes have been slain in battle.” Sumantra continued, “Though you reside far away, the people, imagining you present in their minds, will today surely become fasting, thinking of you. You have seen, Rama, how, during your exile, the people have become distressed and agitated, their hearts weary with grief for you. For the cry of distress released by the citizens at my exile, upon seeing me seated in the chariot, would become a hundred times greater. What could I possibly say to your mother? That your son has been taken by me to his uncle’s house—do not grieve? Even if it is untrue, I would not utter such words; how could I speak this unpleasant truth?” He lamented further, “Those who are bound by my command, the hosts of your kinsmen—how will the noble horses tell them that the chariot is bereft of you? I am unable to go to Ayodhya without you, O blameless one; you should permit me to accompany you to the forest. If, despite my entreaties, you insist on abandoning me, then with the chariot I will enter the fire, forsaken by you here.” Thus, in this moment of departure, Rāma and Sumantra exchanged words filled with grief, love, and duty, each striving to uphold righteousness even amidst sorrow, as Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana prepared to enter the forest, leaving behind all that was dear.