In the palace at Ayodhyā, Sītā gazed upon Rāma with concern and confusion. The usual sounds of celebration and praise were absent; the eloquent bards and heralds, who would delight in extolling Rāma’s virtues, did not appear that day. The Sutas and Magadhas, famed for reciting auspicious verses, were silent. The Brahmins, masters of the Vedas, had not gathered to anoint Rāma’s head with honey and curds as prescribed for one consecrated. The citizens and leaders of the guilds, who would normally adorn themselves and follow Rāma, showed no such inclination. Neither the townspeople nor the countryfolk came forth as they would for a royal procession. Sītā wondered aloud why Rāma’s foremost flower-adorned chariot, yoked with four swift horses gleaming with gold, was not proceeding before him. She saw no sign of his splendid elephant, honored for its auspicious marks and dark as a rain cloud, leading the way. Nor was the beautiful, golden-embellished royal seat placed before him as he walked at the head. Even though the consecration was prepared, she saw none of the usual joy on his face; instead, his countenance bore an unfamiliar color, devoid of happiness. Troubled by these omens, Sītā lamented. In response, Rāma, the delight of the Raghus, gently spoke to her: “Sītā, my father is sending me to the forest. Listen, Jānakī, for you are born in a great family and know righteousness. Let me tell you how this has come to pass. My father, King Daśaratha, true to his word, once granted two great boons to Kaikeyī, my mother. Now, as my consecration was being prepared and the king was about to install me, Kaikeyī has claimed those boons, and my father, bound by righteousness, is fulfilling her request. By his command, I must dwell for fourteen years in the Daṇḍaka forest, and Bharata is to be appointed as heir-apparent. I have come to see you before I depart for the lonely forest. In Bharata’s presence, you must never speak of me, for men endowed with prosperity do not tolerate praise of others. Therefore, my virtues must not be spoken of before Bharata. The everlasting heir-apparency has been given to him by the king; you must honor him especially, Sītā, and also the king. I, upholding my father’s promise, will go to the forest today itself. Be steadfast, O resolute one. When I have gone to the forest frequented by sages, you must devote yourself to vows and fasting, O blameless one. Rise early, worship the gods as prescribed, and bow to Daśaratha, my father. My mother Kausalyā, aged and worn by sorrow, deserves your special honor for her righteousness. You must always bow to my other mothers as well, with affection, devotion, and service, for they are all mothers to me. Regard Bharata and Śatrughna as equal to brothers and sons, for they are dearer to me than life. Never do anything displeasing to Bharata, for he is king of the land and the family. Kings, when honored by good conduct and diligent service, are pleased, but angered otherwise. They may even abandon their own sons if they act harmfully and accept capable 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 you must act according to my word.” Thus Rāma spoke, and the narrative now turns to the twenty-seventh sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Hearing Rāma’s words, Sītā—Vaidehī, who was worthy of affection and spoke sweetly—became angry out of love and addressed 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, among heroes, sons of kings, and those skilled in weapons and missiles. 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 have been instructed 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. I have been instructed by my mother and father 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. Serving you always, disciplined and observing chastity, I will delight with you, O hero, in the honey-scented woods.” Thus, in words both sorrowful and resolute, Rāma and Sītā revealed their hearts to each other, as the path of dharma unfolded before them.