As Sumantra, the faithful charioteer, gazed upon the empty chariot that had once carried Rama, his heart was heavy with foreboding. He thought, “When the people see this chariot returning without Rama—even though it still bears his name—the very sight will tear the city apart. Ayodhya will be plunged into sorrow at the return of an empty chariot, bearing only the charioteer, like an army bereft of its heroes after a devastating battle.” He reflected further, “Though you, Rama, will dwell far away, the people of Ayodhya will hold you in their hearts. Today, they will surely fast and grieve for you, their thoughts consumed by your absence. You have seen yourself how, since your exile, the citizens have become agitated and distressed, their hearts weary with longing and sorrow for you.” Sumantra’s mind was filled with anguish. “The cry of grief that rose from the people when I departed with you will multiply a hundredfold when they see me return alone. What will I say to your mother? Should I tell her, ‘Your son has been taken to his uncle’s house—do not grieve’? Even if it were untrue, I could not utter such words. How could I speak such a painful truth?” He wondered, “Those bound by my command, your kinsmen and their households—how will they learn from the noble horses that the chariot returns bereft of you? I cannot bear to go back to Ayodhya without you, O blameless one. Please, permit me to accompany you into the forest.” With deep devotion, Sumantra pleaded, “If, despite my entreaties, you insist on leaving me behind, then I will enter the fire with this chariot, forsaken by you here. Whatever hardships we may face in the forest, O Raghava, I will ward them off with the chariot. The happiness I have found in serving you thus far, I hope to continue by serving you in your forest dwelling. And these horses, O hero, if they serve you in the forest, will attain the highest state.” He declared with resolve, “I will serve you with my head while dwelling in the forest. Ayodhya, or even the realm of the gods, I renounce entirely. I cannot return to Ayodhya without you; even Indra’s city is inaccessible to one who has committed such a sin. When the period of your forest exile ends, my heart’s only wish is to carry you back to the city with this very chariot. Fourteen years spent with you in the forest will pass like moments; otherwise, even hundreds of years would seem unbearable.” With humility and distress, Sumantra continued, “Do not abandon me, your devoted servant, on this path where the master and son have gone. I stand steadfast and faithful in your service.” Hearing Sumantra’s repeated, heartfelt pleas, Rama, ever compassionate to his servant, sought to console him. “I know your supreme devotion to me, O loyal one. But listen to the reason I ask you to return to the city. When you reach Ayodhya, my stepmother Kaikeyī will be convinced that Rama has truly gone to the forest. She will be satisfied and will not suspect that the righteous king has spoken falsely. This is my foremost wish: that my stepmother may secure a flourishing kingdom for her son Bharata, kept safe.” Rama continued gently, “For the happiness of both myself and the king, Sumantra, return to the city with the chariot. As you have been instructed, speak to each person as is appropriate.” Having thus spoken and repeatedly consoled the charioteer, Rama then turned to Guha, the chief of the Nishadas, and addressed him with firm resolve. “Guha, it is not fitting for me now to dwell in the inhabited part of the forest. I must reside in the hermitage, for such is the prescribed rule. Therefore, embracing the vow that adorns ascetics, and wishing for the welfare of my father, Sita, and Lakshmana, I will proceed.” He added, “After my matted locks are made, I will depart. Bring me the milk of the banyan tree.” Guha promptly brought the milk, and with it, Rama fashioned matted locks for both Lakshmana and himself. The two brothers, long-armed and resolute, assumed the ascetic’s appearance. Clad in bark garments and wearing circles of matted hair, Rama and Lakshmana shone like twin sages, radiant and dignified. Having adopted the path of hermits with Lakshmana, Rama, having taken his vow, spoke once more to Guha, his companion: “Be ever vigilant, Guha, regarding the army, the treasury, the fortresses, and the people, for the kingdom is most difficult to protect.” With these words, Rama took leave of Guha. The scion of Ikshvaku then set out swiftly, undisturbed, accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana. Arriving at the riverbank, Rama, desiring to cross the swift-flowing Ganga, spoke to Lakshmana: “O tiger among men, board this boat which is ready, and gently help Sita, the noble lady, to embark after you.” Hearing his brother’s command, Lakshmana raised no objection, first helping Maithili—Sita—to board, and then ascending himself. Then, the illustrious elder brother of Lakshmana, Rama, boarded the boat. Guha, the chief of the Nishadas, urged his men to assist. Raghava, of great splendor, having boarded the boat, recited sacred prayers for his welfare, as prescribed for both Brahmins and Kshatriyas. Ritually sipping water as the scriptures prescribe, together with Sita and Lakshmana, Rama bowed to the river, radiant and delighted. Having taken leave of Sumantra, Guha, and their forces, Rama then directed the boatmen to proceed, and thus began his journey deeper into exile, upholding dharma with every step.