Sumantra, the devoted charioteer, stood before Rāma, his heart heavy with the prospect of separation. With deep emotion, he pleaded, “If, despite all my entreaties, you are resolved to abandon me here, then let me enter the fire with this chariot, forsaken by you. Whatever dangers or obstacles may arise in the forest, O Rāghava, I will shield you from them with the chariot’s strength. The happiness I have known in serving you through this chariot, I wish now to find anew by serving you in your forest dwelling. “These noble horses, O hero, if they too may serve you as dwellers in the forest, will surely attain the highest state. I will serve you with all my heart while living in the forest; I renounce Ayodhya, and even the heavenly realms, entirely. Truly, I cannot return to Ayodhya without you; even the city of mighty Indra is barred to one who has acted wrongly. When your period of exile is complete, my one 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; without you, even hundreds of years would seem unbearable. “Do not abandon me, your steadfast servant, on this path where the master and son have gone. I stand here, faithful and devoted, longing only to serve.” Thus, Sumantra pleaded again and again, his words humble and sorrowful. Rāma, ever compassionate to his servant, addressed him gently, “O devoted one, I know the depth of your loyalty. But listen to the reason I send you back to the city. When you return, my younger mother Kaikeyī will be convinced that I have truly gone to the forest. Only then will that queen, satisfied with my departure, have no cause to suspect the righteous king of falsehood. “This is my foremost wish: that my younger mother may secure a flourishing kingdom for her son Bharata, kept safe. For the happiness of both myself and the king, you, Sumantra, must return to the city with the chariot. Speak to each person as is fitting, just as I have instructed you.” Having spoken thus and having repeatedly consoled the sorrowful charioteer, Rāma then turned to Guha, the chief of the Nishadas, and addressed him with firm resolve. “Guha, it is not proper for me now to dwell in the inhabited parts of the forest. I must reside in a hermitage, for such is the rule prescribed for me. Therefore, embracing the vow that befits an ascetic, and wishing for the welfare of my father, Sītā, and Lakshmana, I will proceed. “After my matted locks are fashioned, I will depart. Bring me the milk of the banyan tree.” Guha quickly brought the banyan milk for the prince, and with it, Rāma fashioned matted locks for both himself and Lakshmana. Clad in bark garments, their hair arranged in circles of matted locks, the two brothers shone like twin sages, radiant and serene. Having thus adopted the path of the hermits with Lakshmana, Rāma, firm in his vow, spoke to Guha once more. “Be ever vigilant, Guha, in guarding the army, the treasury, the fortresses, and the people. The protection of the kingdom is a most difficult task.” Then, taking leave of Guha, the scion of Ikshvāku departed swiftly and undisturbed, accompanied by his wife Sītā and his brother Lakshmana. Upon reaching the riverbank, Rāma, desiring to cross the swift-flowing Ganga, spoke to Lakshmana, “O tiger among men, board this ready boat, and gently help Sītā, the noble lady, to embark after you.” Lakshmana, obedient to his brother’s command, first helped Maithilī, Sītā, to board, and then climbed in himself. Thereafter, the illustrious Rāma boarded the boat, while Guha, the chief of the Nishadas, urged his kinsmen to action. Rāghava, radiant and resolute, once aboard, recited sacred prayers for his own welfare, as prescribed for both Brahmins and Kshatriyas. Together with Sītā, Lakshmana ritually sipped water according to the scriptures, and both offered respectful salutations to the river. Having taken leave of Sumantra, Guha, and their followers, Rāma boarded the boat and instructed the boatmen to set off. Prompted by their words, the boat, expertly steered and swiftly propelled by the oarsman, sped across the water. When they reached the middle of the sacred Bhāgīrathī, the faultless Vaidehī, Sītā, joined her palms and prayed to the river: “This is the son of Daśaratha, the great and wise king. O Ganga, may he be protected by you and fulfill his father’s command. After dwelling for fourteen full years in the forest, together with his brother and me, he will return again. “O blessed and gracious goddess, when I have returned safely, I will worship you, O Ganga, joyfully for the fulfillment of all my desires. You, O Tripathagā, behold the world of Brahma; and as the consort of the ocean king, you appear in this world. Therefore, O goddess, I bow to you and praise you, beautiful one, when the tiger among men regains his kingdom and returns safely. “I will offer you a hundred thousand cows, garments, and fine food for the Brahmins, wishing to please you. With a thousand jars of wine and offerings of meat and rice, I will worship you, O goddess, with devotion, when I have returned to the city.” Thus, with prayers and farewells, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana crossed the sacred Ganga, stepping forward into their exile, upheld by duty, devotion, and hope.