Ayodhyā, once vibrant with music and festivity, now lay silent and desolate, like a vast ocean whose waters had withdrawn. The joyous songs, lively festivals, dances, and the melodies of instruments were stilled; happiness had vanished, the bustling markets were shuttered, and the city seemed to hold its breath in sorrow. Meanwhile, Rāma, the tiger among men, journeyed onward through the remainder of the night, his mind ever dwelling on his father’s command. As the auspicious night gave way to dawn, he paused to worship the sacred morning, and then crossed the boundary of his father’s kingdom. Swiftly, he passed through villages set far apart and forests blooming with life, moving with the speed of arrows loosed from the bows of excellent horses. As he traveled, the voices of villagers reached his ears, their words heavy with grief and indignation: “Shame on King Daśaratha, who has fallen under the sway of desire. Alas, today Kaikeyī is cruel and sinful, bound to evil ways—she has broken all boundaries and acts harshly. She sends the righteous son of the king, wise, compassionate, and diligent, into exile in the forest. How will Sītā, the blessed daughter of Janaka, who has always known happiness, now bear suffering? Ah, King Daśaratha is without affection, wishing to abandon Rāma, his blameless and beloved son, for the sake of the people.” Hearing these lamentations, the heroic lord of Kosala pressed on, undeterred. He crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose waters were pure and clear, and journeyed toward the region inhabited by the sage Agastya. After traveling for a long time, he crossed the river Gomati, its cold waters and cattle-frequented banks stretching toward the sea. With swift horses, Rāma then traversed the Syandikā river, alive with the cries of peacocks and swans. As they journeyed, Rāma pointed out to Sītā the prosperous land once bestowed by King Manu upon Ikṣvāku, a land flourishing with thriving realms. Repeatedly, the illustrious Rāma, whose voice was as melodious as a drunken swan, addressed his charioteer: “When will I return again to the blossoming forest by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, united with my mother and father? I do not long excessively for the hunt in the Sarayū forest, yet this pleasure is unmatched in the world, esteemed by kings and sages alike. For in this world, hunting in the forest is indeed arranged for the pleasure of royal sages, and is desired by skilled archers at the proper time.” Thus, the descendant of Ikṣvāku, understanding his purpose, spoke sweetly to the charioteer and set out on his path, giving him instructions as they went. Having traversed the delightful and vast land of Kosala, Rāma, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, folded his palms in reverence as they neared the borders of Ayodhyā. With deep feeling, he spoke to the charioteer: “I take leave of you, O best of cities, protected by the noble Kakutstha lineage, and of the deities who guard and dwell within you. When my exile in the forest is complete, and my debt to the king is paid, I will see you again, together with my mother and father.” Then, his eyes reddened with tears, Rāma raised his right arm, his face full of sorrow, and addressed the people of Janapada: “You have shown me compassion and kindness as was fitting; but long suffering is worse than evil—go now, so that your purpose may be fulfilled.” With lamentations, the people circumambulated the great-souled prince and, weeping bitterly, lingered here and there. Unsatisfied in their longing, they watched as Rāghava departed from their sight, vanishing like the sun at the approach of night. Journeying onward, Rāma saw prosperous villages, rich in grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, free from fear, beautiful and adorned with sacrificial posts. The villages were further graced with gardens and mango groves, blessed with abundant water, bustling with contented and healthy folk, and served by herds of cattle. The tiger among men passed through the distinguished lands of kings, where the air resounded with the chants of Brahmins, as he rode in his chariot. Amidst that joyful, flourishing, and beautiful land, crowded with lovely gardens, the steadfast Rāma journeyed through the kingdom, a realm fit for the enjoyment of kings. There, Rāghava beheld the divine Gaṅgā, flowing in three streams—holy, pure, free from weeds, and frequented by sages. The sacred river was adorned with splendid hermitages, and graced by the joyous dances of Apsarases at the proper times. Its banks were lined with serene lakes and beautified by the presence of gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, as well as the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. The Gaṅgā was crowded with countless divine playgrounds, adorned with tens of thousands of celestial gardens, and famed as the divine lotus-lake, ascending to the heavens for the sake of the gods. In some places, the river laughed with the crashing of her waters, her smile pure as foam; in others, her waters were braided, or adorned with swirling eddies. At times she was calm and deep, elsewhere agitated by swift currents; here she resounded with a profound roar, there with a terrifying noise. In some stretches, gods bathed in her waters, which shone with spotless lotuses; at times she spread out in broad sandbanks, elsewhere her shores were covered in pure white sand. Her banks echoed with the calls of swans and cranes, and the cries of chakravaka birds, always filled with the joyful songs of intoxicated birds. Thus, Rāma’s journey led him through lands of beauty and sorrow, as he moved ever onward, upholding the will of dharma.