With the sun sinking low and the forest path ahead uncertain, Rāma, mighty-armed and steadfast, turned to Lakṣmaṇa, the son of Sumitrā whose presence always brought joy. He spoke with gentle gravity, “Be ever vigilant for our protection, whether among people or in solitude. Above all, our safety must be ensured, especially in the unseen and lonely depths of the forest. Go ahead, Saumitri, and let Sītā follow you. I will walk behind, guarding both you and Sītā. Today, Vaidehī will come to know the true hardship of forest life.” He continued, “No action is easily accomplished before its destined time; today, Vaidehī will indeed experience the challenges of dwelling in the wilderness. She will enter a forest deserted of people, lacking fields and gardens, filled with difficulties and steep descents.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Lakṣmaṇa stepped forward to lead, while Rāma, the delight of the Raghu line, followed after Sītā. They crossed swiftly to the far shore of the Gaṅgā, and as they did, Lakṣmaṇa gazed intently at Rāma. But the journey was long, and as they pressed on, Lakṣmaṇa’s eyes, filled with sorrow, turned back, and he, ascetic and distressed, shed silent tears. Yet, the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, whose power rivaled the guardians of the world, pressed onward. After crossing the mighty river, they gradually approached prosperous villages, where beautiful crops flourished and joyful calves played. There, the two brothers hunted four great beasts—a boar, a rṣya, a spotted deer, and a mighty stag. Taking the sacred meat, eager and hungry, they made their way quickly to the lord of the forest for shelter. As twilight fell in the west, Rāma approached a great tree and, observing the evening sky, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, his voice both steady and kind. “Today is the first night we spend outside the city. Though you are separated from Sumitrā, do not be anxious for her sake. From now on, we must remain ever vigilant through the nights, without weariness, for Sītā’s safety depends upon us, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us somehow pass this night, Saumitri, spreading out bedding on the ground, made from what we ourselves have gathered.” So Rāma, though accustomed to a bed of luxury, lay down upon the bare earth. He spoke auspicious words to Lakṣmaṇa, but his thoughts turned to Ayodhyā. “Surely tonight, the great king, my father, sleeps in sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa; but Kaikeyī, having fulfilled her desire, must be satisfied. That queen, for the sake of the kingdom, would not even hesitate to give up her life if she saw Bharata return.” He sighed, “Helpless and aged, deprived of me, what will our self-indulgent king, now under Kaikeyī’s sway, do? Seeing this misfortune and the king’s confused mind, I believe that desire outweighs both wealth and righteousness. For who, even if ignorant, would abandon his son for the sake of a woman, as our father has done to me, Lakṣmaṇa, who always obeyed her?” Rāma’s voice grew softer. “Indeed, Bharata, son of Kaikeyī, is fortunate with his wife; he alone will enjoy the prosperous Kosala kingdom as sovereign. He will become the sole face of the entire kingdom, with our father aged and me dwelling in the forest. Whoever abandons wealth and righteousness to follow desire quickly falls into misfortune, as King Daśaratha has. I think, gentle one, that Kaikeyī has brought about the end of Daśaratha, my exile, and the kingdom for Bharata.” His concern shifted to those left behind. “I hope now Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her good fortune, does not harass Kausalyā and Sumitrā because of me. Let not Queen Sumitrā, because of me, dwell in sorrow; you, Lakṣmaṇa, should return to Ayodhyā at the proper time. I alone will go to Daṇḍaka with Sītā. For the mother left without support, you will be her protector, Lakṣmaṇa. Indeed, Kaikeyī, acting out of malice, may commit wrongful deeds; she might even hand over my mother to Bharata, who knows righteousness.” A deep sadness overtook him. “Surely, in some other birth, women separated from their sons must have done something; even so, this has now come upon my mother. For Kausalyā, who raised me for so long and with much suffering, is now deprived of me at the very time of her reward—shame on me. Let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, Saumitri, who brings endless grief to his mother. I think, Lakṣmaṇa, that the pet starling is dearer to her than I am, for she listens to its words as she counts the toes of her enemy’s parrot. What use am I, O subduer of foes, to my mother, who is unfortunate and whom I, her son, cannot help at all as she grieves?” Rāma’s heart ached. “Indeed, my mother Kausalyā, deprived of me, lies overwhelmed by the greatest sorrow, fallen into an ocean of grief. Alone, I could conquer Ayodhyā and even the earth with my arrows in anger, Lakṣmaṇa, but truly, valor is pointless. Fearing unrighteousness and the world beyond, O sinless one, that is why, Lakṣmaṇa, I do not anoint myself today.” Having spoken these and other sorrowful words at length in the lonely forest, Rāma, his face wet with tears, sat silently in the night. Seeing Rāma, who had ceased his lamentation and was like a fire whose flames are gone, like a sea whose waves are stilled, Lakṣmaṇa sought to comfort him. “Surely today, O best of warriors, the city of Ayodhyā is without radiance, with you gone, like the night bereft of the moon. This is not fitting, Rāma, that you grieve in this way; you cast down Sītā and me as well, O best of men.” Thus, Lakṣmaṇa spoke words of solace, seeking to lift the heart of his beloved brother as the night deepened around them in the silent forest.