Hearing Rāma’s gentle words, Lakṣmaṇa respectfully moved ahead to lead the way, with Rāghava—the joy of the Raghu dynasty—following behind, Sītā close by his side. The three of them, determined and resolute, swiftly crossed the broad, sacred waters of the Gaṅgā. Once they had reached the far shore, Lakṣmaṇa, son of Sumitrā, turned to gaze steadily at his beloved brother Rāma. Yet, as the distance between them and their home grew, his eyes lingered with longing and sorrow, and the devoted Lakṣmaṇa, his heart heavy, could not hold back his tears. Despite the pain of separation, the great-souled brothers pressed onward, their strength and courage matching that of the very guardians of the world. Crossing the mighty river, they gradually approached prosperous villages, where golden fields waved with ripened crops and herds of calves played in joy. In those fertile lands, the two brothers hunted and felled four noble creatures—a boar, an rṣya, a spotted deer, and a powerful stag. With reverence, they gathered the sacred meat, eager and hungry, and hastened to seek shelter in the domain of the lord of the forest. As the day faded into the western twilight, Rāma, the foremost among those who bring joy, approached a great tree. Observing the deepening dusk, he turned to Lakṣmaṇa and spoke with gentle reassurance: “Tonight is the first night we spend away from the city. Do not let your heart be anxious at being separated from Sumitrā’s son. From this night onward, we must remain ever watchful through the darkness, never weary, for Sītā’s safety rests in our hands, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us somehow pass this night—let us gather what we can and spread bedding on the earth for our rest.” Accustomed to the comforts of a royal bed, Rāma now lay down upon the bare ground, yet he spoke auspicious words to his devoted brother. “Surely, Lakṣmaṇa, the great king sleeps tonight in sorrow, while Queen Kaikeyī, having achieved her heart’s desire, must feel satisfied. For the sake of the kingdom, Kaikeyī would not hesitate even to give up her own life when she sees Bharata return. But what will our helpless, aged father do, deprived of me and left under Kaikeyī’s sway? Witnessing his confusion and this misfortune, I see that desire can outweigh both wealth and righteousness. “For who, even if ignorant, would cast aside his own son for the sake of a woman, as our father has done at Kaikeyī’s bidding, though I have always obeyed her? Bharata, Kaikeyī’s son, is truly fortunate with his wife; he alone will now enjoy the prosperous kingdom of Kosala as its sovereign. He will be the sole ruler, with our father aged and me living in the forest. Whoever abandons wealth and righteousness to pursue desire swiftly falls into misfortune, as King Daśaratha has. I believe Kaikeyī has brought about my exile, the king’s decline, and the kingdom for Bharata. “I pray that Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her good fortune, does not torment Kausalyā and Sumitrā because of me. Let not Queen Sumitrā suffer on my account; Lakṣmaṇa, you must return to Ayodhyā at the right time. I alone will go with Sītā to Dandaka; you, Lakṣmaṇa, must be the protector of your mother, who will be left without support. Kaikeyī, acting out of malice, may commit wrongful deeds—even hand my mother over to Bharata, though he knows righteousness. “Perhaps, in some former birth, women separated from their sons did something to merit this fate; so now has this sorrow come upon my mother. Kausalyā, who raised me with such care and suffering, is now deprived of me at the very moment she should have found joy—shame on me. May no woman ever have a son like me, Saumitri, who brings endless grief to his mother. “I think, Lakṣmaṇa, that even her pet starling is dearer to her than I am; she listens to its words as she counts the toes of her enemy’s parrot. Of what use am I to my mother, O subduer of foes, when I cannot help her at all in her grief? My mother Kausalyā, deprived of me, must now be overwhelmed by sorrow, lost in a sea of grief. Alone, I could conquer Ayodhyā and even the earth with my arrows in anger, Lakṣmaṇa—but truly, what is the use of valor? Fearing unrighteousness and the world beyond, O sinless one, that is why I do not anoint myself as king today.” Having poured out these and many other sorrowful words in the silent forest, Rāma, his face wet with tears, fell silent beneath the night sky. Seeing his brother thus, like a fire whose flames have died or a sea stilled of its waves, Lakṣmaṇa sought to comfort him. “Surely today, O best of warriors, Ayodhyā is without radiance in your absence, like the night without the moon. It is not right for you to grieve in this way, Rāma—you cast down both Sītā and me with your sorrow, O best of men. Neither Sītā nor I, O Raghava, could live even a moment without you, just as fish cannot survive out of water. Truly, I do not wish to see our father, nor Shatrughna, nor even my own mother, nor even heaven itself, if it means being without you.” With Sītā seated comfortably not far away, the two righteous brothers finally lay down to rest on a bed of leaves beneath the sheltering banyan tree. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s wise and loving words, Rāma embraced life in the forest with renewed resolve, dedicating himself fully to righteousness and practicing supreme austerity for a long time. In that lonely forest, the two mighty sons of Raghu felt neither fear nor anxiety, like lions roaming proudly on the mountain slopes.