As Lakṣmaṇa spoke, his confidence shone through: “There is nothing in this forest unknown to me, for I wander here freely. Even an army of four divisions could be overcome in battle.” His steadfastness and righteousness persuaded all of us, and his words brought comfort. Yet, my heart was heavy. How could I possibly find sleep, or even life or happiness, while Rāma, son of Daśaratha, lies on the ground with Sītā? This Rāma, whom not even all the gods and demons together could overpower in battle—look, Guha, how he now rests on grass with Sītā beside him. He is Daśaratha’s only son, equal to his father in every virtue, obtained after much asceticism and hardship. With Rāma exiled, the king will not live long; surely the earth will soon become a widow. The women, exhausted, have ceased their loud wailing; surely today the royal palace is silent. Neither Kausalyā, nor the king, nor my own mother—I do not expect that any of them will survive this night. Perhaps my mother may survive, watching over Śatrughna, but Kausalyā, grieving for her heroic son, will perish. My father, having let slip the chariot of his mind and not installing Rāma in the kingdom, will pass away. When that time comes and my father is gone, all those who have achieved their aims will perform his funeral rites. The city, with its beautiful squares, well-laid roads, splendid mansions and palaces adorned with every jewel, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, resounding with instruments, filled with blessings and joyful, prosperous people, complete with parks and gardens, rich in gatherings and festivals—my father’s royal city will see people moving about happily. If, together with the truthful one, we safely return when the time is fulfilled, we too shall enter that city in happiness. As that great-souled prince stood there lamenting in this way, the night passed. At dawn, when the sun had risen clear, I arranged for both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to have their hair matted on the bank of the Bhāgīrathī, and saw them off in comfort. Those two, now wearing matted locks and bark garments, mighty as leaders of elephant herds, bearing excellent bows, arrows, and swords, supreme in asceticism, departed with Sītā, glancing back. Now, listen to the eighty-seventh sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing Guha’s words, which were deeply distressing, Bharata at once fell into thought, right where he stood. Delicate yet of great strength, with lion-like shoulders and mighty arms, eyes broad as lotuses, youthful and pleasing to behold—Bharata, overwhelmed by deep sorrow, regained his breath for a moment, then suddenly collapsed like an elephant struck in the heart by goads. Seeing Bharata fallen unconscious, Guha’s face lost its color; he became distressed, like a tree shaken by an earthquake. Then Śatrughna, standing nearby, embraced Bharata in that state and wept aloud, losing consciousness and worn down by grief. All the mothers of Bharata gathered there, emaciated from fasting, miserable, and afflicted by their husband’s misfortune. They surrounded him as he lay fallen on the ground, weeping; but Kausalyā, deeply troubled, followed and embraced him. Like a loving cow embracing her calf, the ascetic Kausalyā held Bharata close, weeping, her heart consumed by grief. “My son, I hope no illness afflicts your body; for now, the life of this royal house depends on you. Seeing you, my son, I live on, though Rāma with his brothers has departed. With King Daśaratha gone, you alone are our protector now. My son, I hope you have heard nothing unpleasant about Lakṣmaṇa, who went to the forest with his wife, for to a mother with only one son, he too is a son.” After a moment, regaining his composure yet still weeping, the illustrious Bharata comforted Kausalyā and spoke these words to Guha: “Where did my brother spend the night? Where were Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa? On what bed did they sleep, and what did they eat? Tell me, Guha.” Thus questioned, Guha, king of the Nishadas, told Bharata everything—how he had received Rāma, his dear and honored guest. “I brought for Rāma a great variety of food, both fine and coarse, and many kinds of fruits for his meal. Rāma, steadfast in truth and valor, declined all of it; he did not accept, remembering the duty of a warrior. ‘We must not accept gifts, my friend, though we should always give,’ thus the great-souled one gently persuaded us, O King. After Lakṣmaṇa brought water, the illustrious Rāma drank and then observed the fast, together with Sītā. Then, with the water that remained, Lakṣmaṇa also performed the ritual; the three of them, their speech restrained, devoutly observed the evening worship. Then Saumitri quickly brought grass himself and prepared a pure resting place for Rāghava. On that bed, Rāma entered together with Sītā; after washing their feet, Lakṣmaṇa withdrew.