Having swiftly crossed to the far shore of the Gaṅgā, Lakṣmaṇa—the devoted son of Sumitrā—turned his gaze back toward Rāma, his elder brother. Though he looked intently, the long journey and the widening river soon forced him to avert his eyes. Overcome with sorrow, the noble ascetic wept, distressed at the growing distance between himself and the beloved city of Ayodhyā. Once they had crossed the mighty river, the great-souled Rāma, whose strength and virtue rivaled the very guardians of the world, gradually led his companions—Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa—through a succession of prosperous villages. These lands were rich with beautiful crops, and the fields echoed with the joyful cries of calves. As they journeyed, hunger pressed upon them. In the forest, the two brothers killed four great beasts—a boar, an ṛṣya (a kind of antelope), a spotted deer, and a mighty stag. With sacred care, they prepared the meat and, eager and hungry, carried it with them as they sought shelter with the lord of the forest. As evening approached, Rāma walked toward a great tree and, observing the western sky glowing with twilight, spoke gently to Lakṣmaṇa, his heart full of care for his brother. “Today is the first night we spend outside the city, Lakṣmaṇa. Though we are separated from Sumitrā’s son, you must not let anxiety trouble your heart.” He continued, “From this day onwards, we must remain ever-watchful through the nights, never growing weary. Sītā’s safety, dear Lakṣmaṇa, depends upon our vigilance. Let us somehow pass this night, spreading out a simple bedding on the earth, made from what we ourselves have gathered.” Despite being accustomed to the comfort of a royal bed, Rāma lay down upon the bare earth. He spoke auspicious words to Lakṣmaṇa, seeking to comfort him and himself. “Surely tonight, the great king, our father, sleeps in sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa. But Kaikeyī, having achieved her desire, must now be satisfied.” Rāma’s thoughts turned to the palace and its intrigues. “That queen Kaikeyī, so intent on securing the kingdom for her son, would not even hesitate to give up her own life upon seeing Bharata return. Our father, now helpless with age and deprived of me, what will he do under Kaikeyī’s sway?” He reflected with sorrow, “Seeing this misfortune and the king’s confused mind, I believe that desire, when unchecked, overpowers both wealth and righteousness. For who, even if ignorant, would abandon his own son for the sake of a woman, as our father has done to me, Lakṣmaṇa, always obedient to her?” “Bharata, Kaikeyī’s son, is truly fortunate with his wife. He alone will enjoy the prosperous kingdom of Kosala as its ruler. He will be the sole face of the 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.” Rāma’s voice grew heavy. “I think, gentle one, that Kaikeyī’s actions have brought about the end for Daśaratha, my exile, and the kingdom for Bharata. I hope Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her success, does not torment 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.” He continued, “I alone will go to Dandaka with Sītā. For the mother left without support, you, Lakṣmaṇa, will be her protector. Indeed, Kaikeyī, acting with malice, may commit further wrongful deeds; she might even hand over my mother to Bharata, who knows righteousness.” Rāma pondered the workings of fate. “Surely, in some past birth, women separated from their sons must have done something to bring this upon themselves; even so, this sorrow has now come upon my mother, Kausalyā. She raised me for so long and with such suffering, and now, at the time when she should have been rewarded, she is deprived of me—shame on me.” He lamented, “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, whose words are heard as she counts the toes of her enemy’s parrot. What use am I, O subduer of foes, to my mother, who is so unfortunate and whom I, her son, cannot help as she grieves?” “My mother Kausalyā, deprived of me, lies overwhelmed by the greatest sorrow, as if fallen into an ocean of grief. Alone, I could conquer Ayodhyā and even the whole earth with my arrows in anger, Lakṣmaṇa, but truly, valor is pointless. Fearing unrighteousness and the world beyond, O sinless one, that is why I do not anoint myself as king today.” Having spoken thus, pouring out his sorrow in the lonely forest, Rāma, his face streaked with tears, fell silent as the night deepened. He sat quietly, having voiced his grief and longing. Lakṣmaṇa, seeing his brother’s suffering, sought to comfort him. “Surely today, O best of warriors, the city of Ayodhyā is without radiance, now that you are gone—like the night bereft of the moon. This is not fitting, Rāma, that you grieve in this way; by your sorrow, you cast down Sītā and me as well, O best of men.” He declared, “Neither Sītā nor I, O Rāghava, could live even for a moment without you, just as fish cannot live when taken from water. Truly, I do not wish to see my father, nor Shatrughna, nor the ascetic Sumitrā, nor even heaven itself, if it is without you.” Then, seeing Sītā seated not far away, the two righteous brothers lay down together on a bed of leaves beneath the spreading banyan tree. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s wise and heartfelt words, Rāma embraced life in the forest with dignity and respect. The noble Rāghava devoted himself fully to righteousness for a long time, practicing supreme austerity. In that lonely forest, the two mighty sons of the Raghu line felt neither fear nor anxiety, just as lions roam the mountain slopes without dread. Thus, they passed their first night in exile, upholding dharma even amidst sorrow and uncertainty.