The great-souled Rāma, whose strength rivaled the very guardians of the world, pressed onward after crossing the mighty river. He and Lakṣmaṇa gradually approached prosperous villages, where golden fields and thriving crops stretched out in abundance, and the air echoed with the playful sounds of joyful calves. In these fertile lands, the two brothers hunted four noble beasts—a powerful boar, a rṣya, a spotted deer, and a mighty stag. With reverence, they took the sacred meat, their hunger keen after the journey, and hurried toward the lordly heart of the forest, seeking shelter for the night. As dusk settled in the west, Rāma approached a great tree. Observing the twilight, he, the foremost among those who bring joy, spoke gently to Lakṣmaṇa. “Today is our first night away from the city. Though you are separated from Sumitra’s son, you must not feel anxious. From now on, we must remain vigilant through the nights, never weary, for Sītā’s safety depends upon us, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us somehow pass this night, Saumitri, spreading out bedding on the ground from what we ourselves have gathered.” Rāma lay upon the earth, though he was accustomed to the comforts of a royal bed, and spoke auspicious words to Saumitri. “Surely tonight the great king sleeps in sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa, while Kaikeyī, having fulfilled her desire, must be satisfied. That queen, for the sake of the kingdom, would not hesitate even to give up her life upon seeing Bharata return. Helpless and aged, deprived of me, what will the self-indulgent king, now under Kaikeyī’s sway, do? Seeing this misfortune and the king’s confusion, I believe that desire outweighs both wealth and righteousness. Who, even if ignorant, would abandon his son for the sake of a woman, as our father has done to me—who always obeyed her?” Rāma continued, “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 come for the end of Dasharatha, for my exile, and for the kingdom for Bharata. I hope Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her good fortune, does not harass Kausalya and Sumitra because of me. Let not Queen Sumitra, because of me, dwell in sorrow; you, Lakṣmaṇa, should return to Ayodhya at the proper time. I alone will go to Dandaka with Sītā; for the mother who is 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. Surely, in some other birth, women separated from their sons must have done something; even so, this has now come upon my mother. For Kausalya, who raised me for so long and with much suffering, is now deprived of me at the time of her reward—shame on me. Let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, O 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 unfortunate and whom I, her son, cannot help at all as she grieves? Indeed, my mother Kausalya, deprived of me, lies overwhelmed by the greatest sorrow, fallen into an ocean of grief.” Rāma’s sorrow deepened. “Alone, I could conquer Ayodhya 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 I do not anoint myself today.” Having spoken these and other words of sorrow in the lonely forest, Rāma, his face wet with tears, sat silently as night settled around them. Lakṣmaṇa, seeing Rāma’s lamentation subside—like a fire whose flames are spent, like a sea whose waves are stilled—offered comfort. “Surely today, O best of warriors, the city of Ayodhya is without radiance, with you gone, like the night bereft of the moon. It is not fitting, Rāma, that you grieve in this way; you cast down Sītā and me as well, O best of men. Neither Sītā nor I, O Raghava, 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 Sumitra, nor even heaven itself, if it is without you.” Then, seeing Sītā seated comfortably not far away, the two righteous brothers lay down together on a bed of leaves beneath the banyan tree. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s excellent and abundant words, Rāma embraced life in the forest with respect. The noble Raghava devoted himself fully to righteousness for a long time, practicing supreme austerity. In that lonely forest, those two mighty scions of the Raghu line felt neither fear nor anxiety, just like lions roaming the mountain slopes. After spending the night safely beneath that great tree, when the spotless sun had risen, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa departed from that place, ready to continue their journey into the heart of the forest.