As the time approached for Rāma’s departure, hope and sorrow mingled in the hearts of Ayodhyā’s people. They imagined Rāma, the best among men, soon to be anointed with the earth, with Sītā, and with prosperity—three blessings that seemed within his grasp. Yet as he set out, the people of Ayodhyā, overwhelmed by grief, could not hold back their tears, mourning the separation from their beloved prince. But what could possibly be unattainable for Rāma, the unconquered hero, clad in humble bark and grass, with fortune itself following Sītā who walked beside him? With his foremost skill in archery, carrying arrows and sword, and Lakṣmaṇa forging ahead, Rāma’s path seemed destined for success. Queen Sumitrā, wise and gentle, comforted Rāma’s mother, Kausalyā, saying, “You will see him again, returned from the forest, O lady. Cast aside your grief and delusion—I speak truly. O blameless one, you will again see your son bowing at your feet, as radiant as the risen moon. When he re-enters Ayodhyā, resplendent and anointed, you will shed tears of joy from your eyes. Let there be no sorrow or pain, O lady; nothing inauspicious is seen for Rāma. Soon you will see your son with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. “O sinless one, you must comfort all these people; why do you now harbor distress in your heart? You are not worthy of sorrow, O lady, whose son is Rāghava. There is none greater than Rāma, steadfast in righteousness. Soon, seeing your son, surrounded by friends and bowing in respect, you will shed tears of joy, like a rain cloud releasing its waters. Your son, the bestower of boons, will soon return to Ayodhyā and gently press your feet with his soft, plump hands. Seeing your heroic son, accompanied by friends, bowing and paying homage, you will sprinkle him with tears of joy, like clouds upon a mountain.” Having spoken these comforting words, Queen Sumitrā fell silent. Hearing Sumitrā’s wise counsel, Kausalyā’s grief vanished from her body, like a rain cloud in autumn with little water. Thus ended the forty-fourth sarga of the Ayodhya Kanda in the glorious Ramayana, composed by the sage Valmiki. And so begins the forty-fifth sarga. As Rāma departed for the forest, the people of Ayodhyā, devoted to him and admiring his true valor, followed behind. Though King Dasaratha, their friend and protector, had already turned back out of duty, the people did not turn away, but continued to follow Rāma’s chariot. Among all the men of Ayodhyā, Rāma was as dear as the full moon, renowned for his virtues. Though the citizens pleaded with him to stay, Rāma, upholding his father’s truth, set out for the forest. Looking at them with affection, as if drinking in their presence with his eyes, Rāma spoke tenderly, as a father to his children: “The love and great respect you bear for me—let that, for my sake, be especially shown to Bharata. He, of noble conduct and the joy of Kaikeyi, will properly do for you what is dear and beneficial. Though young in years, he is mature in wisdom, gentle, and endowed with heroic virtues; he will be a fitting lord for you, removing your fears. He is endowed with royal qualities and has been chosen as heir-apparent; and you must also, as instructed by me and the elders, obey your lord’s commands. Just as the king should not grieve when I am gone, so too, out of regard for me, you must act for his happiness.” The more King Dasaratha adhered to righteousness, the more the people longed for Rāma as their lord. With eyes clouded by tears, Rāma, together with Saumitri, seemed to draw the townspeople to himself by his virtues, as if they were bound to him. Then the elders among the twice-born, advanced in knowledge, age, and vigor, their heads trembling with age, spoke these words from afar: “O swift horses carrying Rāma, turn back! You must not go further. It is for your own good and your master’s. For all creatures, especially horses, are attentive to speech; therefore, having heard our request, you must turn back. For your lord, pure in spirit, righteous, heroic, and firm in his noble vow, should be brought back to the city by you, not carried away to the forest.” Seeing those elders, distressed and uttering anguished words, Rāma suddenly descended from the chariot. Then, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, he proceeded on foot, placing his steps close together, intent on the forest. Rāma, who cherished righteous conduct, could not, out of compassion, leave the Brahmins behind by chariot. Seeing Rāma departing, the Brahmins, their minds troubled and deeply afflicted, spoke to him: “All Brahminhood follows you, for you are devoted to Brahmins; even these fires, borne on the shoulders of Brahmins, accompany you. See these umbrellas, arisen from Vājapeya sacrifices, following behind us like clouds after the end of the rains. For you, scorched by the sun’s rays and lacking an umbrella, we will provide shade with our own Vājapeya umbrellas.” Thus, the story unfolds, with Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa departing for the forest, accompanied by the love and devotion of Ayodhyā’s people, elders, and Brahmins, their hearts bound to him by virtue and affection.