Sītā gazed upon Rāma, her heart troubled by the absence of the royal splendor that usually surrounded him. She spoke with tender concern, “Your charming face, which is so often shaded by the hundred-ribbed white umbrella, radiant as sea-foam, does not shine as it usually does today. Nor do I see your lotus eyes being fanned by the two chief fly-whisks, bright as the moon or a swan, as is customary for you. The eloquent bards and heralds, who delight in singing your praises, are not present today, nor do the Sutas and Magadhas recite auspicious verses for you, O bull among men. “The Brahmins, those masters of the Vedas, have not anointed your head with honey and curds as is prescribed for one about to be consecrated. All the citizens and chiefs of the guilds, adorned for the occasion, do not gather to follow you; neither do the townspeople and countryfolk. Why is your foremost, flower-adorned chariot, yoked with four swift horses adorned with gold, not leading the way before you? Nor do I see your splendid elephant, famed for its auspicious marks and dark as a rain cloud or mountain, leading your procession, O hero. Your beautiful golden-embellished royal seat is also missing from the front as you proceed, O hero. “Now that everything for your consecration has been prepared, why is this shadow upon you? Your face bears an unfamiliar color, and I see no joy in you.” As Sītā lamented thus, Rāma, the delight of the Raghus, gently replied, “Sītā, my father is sending me to the forest. Born in a great family and knowing righteousness, listen, O Jānakī, to how this has come to pass. Long ago, my father, King Daśaratha, who is always true to his word, granted two great boons to my mother Kaikeyī. Now, as all was being prepared for my consecration and the king was about to install me, she has claimed those boons. Bound by righteousness, my father is fulfilling her wishes. “By his command, I must dwell in the Daṇḍaka forest for fourteen years, and Bharata is to be appointed as heir-apparent. I have come to see you before I set out for the lonely forest. When you are in Bharata’s presence, you must never speak of me, for those endowed with prosperity do not tolerate praise of others. My virtues should not be spoken of before Bharata. “The heir-apparency, which should have been everlasting, has now been given to him by the king. You must honor him, Sītā, as well as the king. I will uphold my father’s promise and go to the forest today itself; be steadfast, O resolute one. “When I am gone to the forest, frequented by sages, you must devote yourself to vows and fasting, O blameless one. Rise early, perform the worship of the gods as prescribed, and bow to my father Daśaratha, lord of the people. My mother Kausalyā, aged and worn by sorrow, always putting righteousness first, deserves your special honor. You must also bow to my other mothers with affection, devotion, and service—they are all as mothers to me. “Treat Bharata and Śatrughna as brothers and sons, for they are dearer to me than life itself. Never do anything to displease Bharata, O Vaidehī, for he is now the king of the land and the family. Kings, when honored by good conduct and diligent service, are pleased, but they are angered by the opposite. Kings may even abandon their own sons if they act harmfully, and they accept capable people even if they are outsiders. “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 too should you act according to my word.” Thus concludes the twenty-sixth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Now begins the next. Hearing Rāma’s words, Sītā—Vaidehī, worthy of all affection and speaking sweetly—became angry out of love and addressed her husband, “What is this you are saying, Rāma? Surely these are words spoken lightly. Hearing them, O best of men, I feel 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 weapons and missiles. “O noble one, father, mother, brother, son, and daughter-in-law—each enjoys their own merits and pursues their own destinies. But a woman alone partakes in her husband’s destiny, O best of men; therefore, I too am bound to dwell in the forest. For women, neither father, nor son, nor self, nor mother, nor friends are the way—here or hereafter; the husband alone is always their path. “If you set out today for the difficult forest, O Rāghava, I will go before you, treading down the grass and thorns. Casting away jealousy and anger, as one discards water left after drinking, lead me, O hero, with confidence—there is no sin in me. Whether at the top of a palace, in a flying chariot, or moving through the sky, in every situation, the shade of the husband’s feet is best for the wife. “My mother and father have taught me much, but now there is nothing more to say—I must act as I have resolved. I will go to the difficult forest, devoid of men, filled with many kinds of deer and frequented by groups of tigers.” Thus, Sītā spoke with unwavering resolve, her love and devotion shining forth as she pledged to follow Rāma into exile, sharing in his fate no matter the hardship.