The sun rose gently over the distant forests, as Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana journeyed farther from their beloved Ayodhya. The trees whispered their secrets, the rivers flowed in silent sorrow, and the wind carried only the sound of their quiet footsteps.
Soon, they reached the banks of the sacred Ganga — wide and majestic, flowing like a silver ribbon through the land. There, waiting for them with eyes filled with devotion, stood Guha — the noble chief of the Nishadas, a hunter by trade, but a king of his people.
Guha bowed low before Rama, his voice trembling with love. “O Rama, lord of my heart, the forests and the rivers are yours. Stay here, let me serve you. My kingdom, my life, my soul — all are yours.”
Rama smiled gently, his eyes filled with kindness. “O Guha, your love humbles me. But my path is set. I must cross the river and walk into the forest. My exile is my duty, and I must live like a hermit — with no comforts, no luxuries.”
Guha’s heart ached, but he understood the nobility of Rama’s vow. With great care, he brought a simple boat, its planks worn by time but strong enough to carry gods themselves.
Before stepping onto the boat, Guha offered Rama fruits, water, and soft grass for rest. But Rama, true to his promise, took only what a hermit must — just enough to keep the body alive and the mind free.
Sumantra, the charioteer, stood silent by the river, tears streaming down his face. “My prince, let me come with you. Let me serve you in the forest.”
Rama placed a gentle hand on Sumantra’s shoulder. “O friend, your duty lies in Ayodhya. Go back to my father. Care for him, comfort him. Tell him his son’s heart is strong and his path is righteous.”
Sumantra wept, but he obeyed, bowing low before Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana — three souls shining brighter than the sun.
Then came the moment of crossing. Sita stepped onto the boat first, her delicate feet touching the wooden floor like petals falling upon water. Lakshmana followed, his eyes ever watchful. And finally, Rama stepped in, his gaze lingering on the skies above, offering his silent prayers.
Guha himself took up the oar, his strong hands steady, his heart full of devotion. As he rowed, the river sang softly, cradling the boat in her gentle waves.
Midway, Guha’s voice trembled. “O Rama, let me wash your feet. For it is said — the dust of your feet turns stones to gold.”
Rama smiled, “O Guha, your love is my greatest treasure. Row us forward, for the forest calls.”
They reached the far bank as the sun dipped low. The sky blushed in shades of orange and gold, as if the heavens themselves blessed this sacred crossing.
There, on the forest’s edge, Rama bid farewell to Guha — his first true friend of the forest. “O Guha, remain noble and kind. The world shall remember you, not as a hunter, but as the king of hearts.”
Guha bowed, tears glistening in his eyes, as he watched the three figures — Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana — walk into the dense woods, their path lit by the last light of the setting sun.
The Ganga flowed on, carrying their story upon her waves, whispering it to the trees, the winds, and the very earth — the tale of the noble prince who chose exile over a crown.