As Rama journeyed into exile, his heart was heavy with sorrow and concern for those he left behind. He spoke to Lakshmana, his voice filled with pain, “What will become of our father, now aged and helpless, bereft of me and utterly swayed by Kaikeyi’s will? In witnessing his misfortune and the turmoil clouding his mind, I see that desire has triumphed over both wealth and righteousness. For what father, even if ignorant, would cast aside his own son for a woman’s sake, as our father has done to me—always obedient to her wishes? “Now it is Bharata, Kaikeyi’s son, who is truly fortunate. He alone will enjoy the prosperity of the Kosala kingdom as its sovereign. He will become the face of the entire realm, with our father grown old and me dwelling in the forest. When one abandons both wealth and righteousness to pursue desire, misfortune swiftly follows, just as it has for King Dasharatha. “I believe, gentle Lakshmana, that Kaikeyi’s actions have been aimed at our father’s ruin, my exile, and the kingdom for Bharata. I only hope that Kaikeyi, now intoxicated by her good fortune, does not torment Kausalya and Sumitra because of me. Let not Queen Sumitra be forced to dwell in sorrow on my account. Lakshmana, at the proper time, you should return to Ayodhya. “I will go alone to Dandaka with Sita. For my mother, left without support, you must become her protector, Lakshmana. Kaikeyi, driven by malice, may even commit wrongful deeds; she might even hand over my mother to Bharata, though he knows what is right. Surely, in some past life, mothers separated from their sons must have done something to bring about such suffering; now, this fate has befallen my mother. “Kausalya, who raised me so long and with such hardship, is now denied the comfort of her son at the very time she should be rewarded—shame on me! Let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, Saumitri, who brings endless grief to his mother. Sometimes I think 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 to my mother, O subduer of foes, when I cannot help her at all in her grief? “My mother Kausalya, deprived of me, lies overwhelmed by sorrow, as if cast into a vast ocean of grief. Alone, I could conquer Ayodhya and even the world with my arrows, Lakshmana, but truly, what is the use of valor? It is out of fear of unrighteousness and the world beyond, O sinless one, that I do not anoint myself today.” Having spoken thus and poured out his sorrow in the lonely forest, Rama, his face streaked with tears, sat silently as night descended. Seeing Rama, who had fallen silent and appeared like a fire whose flames were spent, or a sea whose waves were stilled, Lakshmana offered him comfort. “Surely today, O best of warriors, Ayodhya is without radiance, now that you are gone—like the night bereft of the moon. It does not befit you, Rama, to grieve like this; you cast down Sita and me as well, O best of men. Neither Sita 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 Sita seated not far away, the two righteous brothers lay down together on a bed of leaves beneath a great banyan tree. Hearing Lakshmana’s wise and comforting words, Rama embraced his life in the forest with respect, devoting himself fully to righteousness and practicing supreme austerity for a long time. In that lonely forest, the two mighty scions of the Raghu line felt neither fear nor anxiety, like lions roaming the mountain slopes. Now listen to the next chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. After spending the night safely beneath that great tree, as the pure sun rose, Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita departed from that place. They made their way toward the confluence where the sacred Bhagirathi Ganga meets the Yamuna, entering a vast and dense forest. Along the way, the illustrious trio beheld many lands and delightful places, seeing sights they had never seen before. As they traveled safely, passing through groves of many kinds of trees, Rama spoke to Lakshmana as the day was drawing to a close: “Look, Saumitri, near Prayaga, there rises a column of smoke—I believe it is the sacred fire of a sage, the sign of Agni himself. Surely we have reached the confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna, for I hear the sound of waters striking together. Here are logs split by forest dwellers, and in the ashram of Bharadvaja, many kinds of trees can be seen.” With hearts uplifted, the two archers continued on and, as the day waned, reached the sage’s dwelling at the sacred confluence. As Rama approached the hermitage, his footsteps startled the deer and birds nearby. Then, with Sita and Lakshmana, he walked quietly for a while and then stood at a respectful distance, wishing to see the sage. Entering the ashram, they saw the great-souled Bharadvaja, surrounded by his disciples, steadfast in his vows and focused in mind, his vision deepened by austerity.