As twilight descended in the west, Rāma—foremost among those who bring joy—approached a great tree and spoke gently to Lakṣmaṇa. “Today marks our first night outside the city,” he said. “Though you are separated from your mother, Sumitrā, do not let anxiety trouble you. From this night onward, we must remain ever vigilant, for Sītā’s safety rests upon our shoulders, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us pass this night somehow, spreading bedding on the ground with what we ourselves have gathered.” Though accustomed to the comfort of a luxurious bed, Rāma lay down upon the bare earth. He spoke auspicious words to Saumitri, seeking to comfort him. “Surely tonight, the great king, our father, lies in sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa, while Kaikeyī, having gained her desire, must feel satisfied. That queen, for the sake of the kingdom, would not hesitate even to give up her life if she saw Bharata return. Now, our father is helpless and aged, deprived of my presence and under Kaikeyī’s sway—what will he do, accustomed as he is to comfort and indulgence? “Observing this misfortune and our father’s confused mind, I see how desire can outweigh 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, ever obedient to her wishes? Indeed, Bharata, son of Kaikeyī, is fortunate with his wife; he alone will enjoy the prosperous Kosala kingdom as a sovereign. He will become the sole face of the entire realm, while our father grows old and I dwell in the forest. “Whoever abandons both wealth and righteousness to follow desire quickly falls into misfortune, just as King Daśaratha has. Gentle one, I think Kaikeyī’s actions have come for the end of Daśaratha, for my exile, and for the kingdom to pass to Bharata. I only hope that Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her good fortune, does not torment Kausalyā and Sumitrā on my account. Let not Queen Sumitrā dwell in sorrow because of me; you, Lakṣmaṇa, should return to Ayodhyā at the proper time. I alone will go to Dandaka with Sītā; for the mother left without support, you must become her protector, Lakṣmaṇa. “Kaikeyī, driven by malice, may commit further wrongful deeds; she might even surrender my mother to Bharata, who knows righteousness. Surely, in some past birth, women separated from their sons must have done something to bring this upon themselves; so it is that this suffering now befalls my mother. For Kausalyā, who raised me for so long and with such hardship, is now deprived of me at the very moment she should have received 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 even the pet starling is dearer to her than I am; she listens to its words as she counts the toes of her enemy’s parrot. What use am I to my mother, O subduer of foes, when I cannot help her at all 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 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 many other sorrowful words in the lonely forest, Rāma, his face wet with tears, fell silent as night deepened. Lakṣmaṇa, seeing his brother’s lamentation cease—like a fire whose flames are spent, or a sea whose waves are stilled—offered words of comfort. “Surely today, O best of warriors, the city of Ayodhyā is without radiance in your absence, like the night bereft of the moon. It is not fitting, Rāma, that you should grieve so; you cast Sītā and me down as well, O best of men. Neither Sītā nor I could live even for a moment without you, O Rāghava, 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.” Seeing Sītā seated comfortably not far away, the two righteous brothers lay down upon a bed of leaves beneath the banyan tree. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s excellent and heartfelt words, Rāma accepted his life in the forest with reverence, devoting himself fully to righteousness and the practice of supreme austerity for a long time. In that lonely forest, the two mighty scions of the Raghu line felt neither fear nor anxiety, just like lions roaming the mountain slopes. Thus ends the fifty-third chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. After spending the night safely beneath the great tree, when the spotless sun had risen, Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā departed from that place. They journeyed toward the sacred confluence where the Bhāgīrathi Gaṅgā meets the Yamunā, entering a vast and dense forest. Along the way, those illustrious ones beheld many lands and delightful places, seeing sights they had never witnessed before. As they traveled safely, marveling at the many kinds of trees, and as the day drew to a close, Rāma spoke once more to Saumitri.