Sītā gazed at Rāma, her heart troubled by the unfamiliar sight before her. “Your lotus-like face,” she said with sorrow, “is no longer cooled by the two chief fly-whisks, radiant as the moon and as white as swans, as is the custom for one of your stature. Today, the eloquent bards and heralds, who delight in your presence, do not appear to praise you, O bull among men. Nor do the Sutas and Magadhas recite auspicious verses in your honor. The Brahmins, masters of the Vedas, do not anoint your head with honey and curds as prescribed for one about to be consecrated. The citizens and chiefs of the guilds, adorned in their finery, do not wish to follow you, nor do the townspeople and countryfolk gather to witness your procession. “Why,” she continued, her voice trembling, “is your foremost, flower-adorned chariot, yoked with four swift horses decked in gold, not going before you? Nor do I see your splendid elephant, honored for its auspicious marks and dark as a rain cloud or mountain, leading the way. Your beautiful, golden-embellished royal seat is not set out before you as you proceed. Now that the consecration is prepared, why is all this missing? Your face bears an unfamiliar color, and I see no joy in you.” As Sītā lamented in this way, Rāma, the delight of the Raghus, gently replied, “Sītā, my father is sending me to the forest. Born in a great family, a knower and follower of righteousness, listen, Jānakī, to how this has come to pass. Long ago, my father Daśaratha, true to his word, granted two great boons to Kaikeyī, my mother. Now, as my consecration was being prepared and the king was ready to install me as prince, Kaikeyī has claimed her boons. Bound by righteousness, my father is fulfilling his promise. “By my father’s command, I must dwell for fourteen years in the Daṇḍaka forest, and Bharata is to be appointed as heir-apparent. So, I have come to see you before I set out for the lonely forest. In Bharata’s presence, you must never speak of me, for those blessed with prosperity do not tolerate praise of others. My virtues must not be spoken of before Bharata. The perpetual heir-apparency has been given to him by the king; you must honor him especially, Sītā, and also the king. “I, upholding my promise to my teacher and father, will go to the forest today itself. Be steadfast, O resolute one. When I have gone, O auspicious one, to the forest frequented by sages, you must devote yourself to vows and fasting, O blameless one. Rise early, perform worship of the gods as prescribed, and bow to Daśaratha, my father, lord of the people. My mother Kausalyā, aged and worn by sorrow, deserves your special honor, placing righteousness first. Always bow to my other mothers as well, with affection, devotion, and service—they are all as mothers to me. Especially regard Bharata and Śatrughna as brothers and sons, for they are dearer to me than life. “Never do anything displeasing to Bharata, for he, O Vaidehī, is now king of the land and the family. Kings, when honored by good conduct and diligent service, are pleased, but are angered when treated otherwise. 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 now you must act according to my word.” Now begins the twenty-seventh sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing these words, Vaidehī, who was always gentle and worthy of affection, became angry out of love and spoke to her husband, “What is this you are saying, 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, especially among heroes, sons of kings, and those skilled in weapons. “O noble one, father, mother, brother, son, and daughter-in-law—all enjoy their own merits and pursue 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 instructed me in many ways; now, there is nothing more to say to me—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. I will dwell happily in the forest, just as in my father’s house, caring nothing for the three worlds, thinking only of my devotion to my husband.