As Rāma, the royal prince, made his way along the grand avenue crowded with eager citizens, his very presence, radiant with virtue, seemed to stir the hearts of all who beheld him. Yet, within the palace, Sītā—Vaidehī—devoted to her vows and spiritual practices, remained untouched by the commotion outside. Her mind was fixed solely on the joyful anticipation of Rāma’s imminent consecration as heir-apparent. Having completed her daily worship with gratitude and a heart full of happiness, the princess, well-versed in royal customs, waited expectantly for news of the ceremony’s outcome. Soon, Rāma entered his own resplendent home, adorned for the occasion and filled with people rejoicing at his arrival. His gaze, however, was cast modestly downward. At that moment, Sītā rose quickly, trembling, and saw her beloved husband’s face clouded with sorrow and his mind disturbed by anxious thoughts. Seeing him thus, Rāma, noble and righteous, could no longer keep his grief hidden; it showed plainly upon his countenance. Sītā, observing Rāma’s pale, perspiring, yet unresentful face, was herself struck by sorrow and gently asked, “What is this, my lord? Today is the auspicious day, when Brihaspati joins Pushya, as declared by the learned Brahmins, O Rāghava—why are you so troubled?” She continued, “Your handsome face, which customarily shines beneath the white, hundred-ribbed royal umbrella—white as sea-foam—does not gleam today as it should. Nor do I see your lotus eyes cooled by the twin fly-whisks, bright as the moon and swan, as is usual. The eloquent bards and heralds, delighted, do not sing your praises today, O bull among men, nor do the Sutas and Magadhas recite auspicious verses. The learned Brahmins, masters of the Vedas, have not anointed your head with honey and curds as prescribed for the consecration.” She looked around, puzzled. “The citizens and chiefs of the guilds, adorned for the occasion, do not follow you in procession, nor do the townsfolk and country people. Why is your foremost, flower-adorned chariot, yoked with four swift, gold-decked horses, not leading your way? Nor do I see your splendid elephant, marked with all auspicious signs, dark as a rain cloud or mountain, at the head of your retinue, O hero. Nor is your golden-embellished royal seat placed before you as you proceed.” Sītā’s concern deepened. “Now that all is prepared for the consecration, why do you look so changed? Your face is unfamiliar, showing no sign of joy.” As she lamented thus, Rāma, the delight of the Raghus, spoke gently to her: “Sītā, my father has commanded me to go to the forest. Listen, Jānakī, you who are born of a noble family and know the ways of righteousness, to how this has come to pass. Long ago, my father Daśaratha, ever true to his word, granted two boons to my mother Kaikeyī. Now, as my consecration was being prepared, she has claimed those boons, and my father, bound by righteousness, is fulfilling his promise.” Rāma’s voice was steady, though sorrow touched his words. “I am to dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest for fourteen years, by my father’s command, and Bharata is to be appointed as heir-apparent. I have come to see you now, as I prepare to depart for the lonely forest. In Bharata’s presence, you must not speak of me, for those blessed with prosperity do not endure the praise of others; let my virtues not be spoken before him.” He continued, “The everlasting heir-apparency has been given to Bharata by the king; honor him especially, Sītā, and also the king. I must uphold my promise to my father and go to the forest today. Be steadfast, O resolute one. When I have gone to the forest, you must devote yourself to vows and fasting, O blameless one. Rise early, perform worship of the gods, and bow to Daśaratha, my father, lord of the people. My mother Kausalyā, aged and worn by sorrow, always putting righteousness first, deserves your special honor. And you must always bow to my other mothers as well, with affection, devotion, and service, for they are all as mothers to me.” He instructed her further, “You must regard Bharata and Śatrughna as equal to brothers and sons, for they are dearer to me than life itself. Never do anything to displease Bharata, O Vaidehī, for he is king of the land and the family. Kings, when honored by good conduct and diligent service, are pleased, but are angered otherwise. For kings may even abandon their own sons if they act harmfully, and they accept capable people, even if they are outsiders.” Rāma concluded, “Therefore, O blessed one, remain here, devoted to the king, delighting in righteousness towards Bharata, and steadfast in truth and vows. I shall go to the great forest, dear one; but you must stay here, O beautiful lady. Just as you have never done wrong to anyone, so act now in accordance with my word.” Thus ends the twenty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Hearing these words, Sītā—Vaidehī—whose nature was gentle and speech sweet, was moved to anger out of love. She spoke to her husband with emotion, “What is this you say, Rāma? Surely these words are spoken lightly. Hearing them, O best of men, I think you are mocking me. Such unworthy and disgraceful words should not be spoken by you, O prince, among heroes, sons of kings, and those skilled in arms.