As Sītā stood on the banks of the sacred Gaṅgā, she spoke with gentle faith to the goddess: “After fourteen full years spent dwelling in the forest, together with my husband and his brother, I know he will return once more.” Her voice was filled with devotion as she continued, “O blessed and gracious goddess, when I have come back safely, I will joyfully worship you, O Gaṅgā, for the fulfillment of all my desires.” Sītā’s reverence deepened as she praised the river: “O goddess Tripathagā, you behold the world of Brahmā, and as the consort of the ocean king, you are manifest in this world. Therefore, O beautiful goddess, I bow to you and sing your praises. When the tiger among men, my husband, regains his kingdom and returns in safety, I will offer you my worship.” She made her vows with sincerity: “I shall give a hundred thousand cows, garments, and fine food to the Brahmins, seeking your pleasure. With a thousand jars of wine and offerings of meat and rice, I will worship you, O goddess, with devotion, when I have returned to the city. All the deities who dwell on your banks, and all the sacred fords and shrines along your course, I will worship them too.” With hope in her heart, Sītā prayed, “May I, reunited with my strong-armed husband and his brother, enter Ayodhyā again from the forest, O sinless one.” Having spoken thus, Sītā, the faultless one, quickly crossed to the southern bank of the Gaṅgā. Upon reaching the shore, Rāma—the bull among men—stepped from the boat with his brother Lakṣmaṇa and the noble Vaidehī, Sītā. Then, the mighty-armed Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, the joy of Sumitrā: “Be ever vigilant for our protection, whether among people or alone in solitude. Protection must certainly be ensured, especially in the unseen loneliness of the forest. Go ahead of us, Saumitri, and let Sītā follow you. I will walk behind, guarding you both. Today, Vaidehī will experience the true hardship of life in the forest.” He continued thoughtfully, “No deed is easily accomplished before its time; today, Vaidehī will indeed learn the difficulty of forest dwelling. Today she will enter the wilderness, deserted by people, devoid of fields and gardens, full of hardships and steep descents.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Lakṣmaṇa walked ahead, leading the way, while Rāghava, the delight of the Raghu lineage, followed after Sītā. Having crossed the wide Gaṅgā swiftly, Sumitrā’s son gazed intently at Rāma. But as the journey lengthened, his gaze fell back, and the ascetic, distressed, shed tears. The great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, whose power rivaled that of the guardians of the world, having crossed the mighty river, gradually led them toward prosperous villages, rich with beautiful crops and joyful calves. There, the two brothers hunted four great beasts—a boar, an ṛṣya, a spotted deer, and a mighty stag. Taking the sacred meat, eager and hungry, they made their way quickly to seek shelter with the lord of the forest. As evening approached, Rāma came to a great tree and, observing the western twilight, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa: “Today is our first night spent outside the city. Though separated from Sumitrā’s son, you should not feel anxious. From this day onward, we must remain vigilant through the nights without weariness, for Sītā’s safety depends upon us, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us somehow pass this night, Saumitri, spreading bedding on the ground gathered by our own hands.” Accustomed to a luxurious bed, Rāma now lay upon the earth, and spoke auspicious words to Saumitri: “Surely tonight the great king sleeps in sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa; but Kaikeyī, having fulfilled her desire, must be satisfied. That queen, for the sake of the kingdom, would not hesitate to give up her life upon seeing Bharata return. Helpless and aged, deprived of me, what will the self-indulgent king do, now under Kaikeyī’s sway?” Reflecting on their fate, Rāma said, “Seeing this misfortune and the king’s confused mind, I believe that desire outweighs both wealth and righteousness. For who, even if ignorant, would abandon his son for the sake of a woman, as our father has done to me, Lakṣmaṇa, though I always obeyed her? Indeed, Bharata, son of Kaikeyī, is fortunate with his wife; he alone will enjoy the prosperous Kosala kingdom as a sovereign. He will become the sole face of the entire kingdom, with our father aged and me dwelling in the forest.” Rāma’s thoughts turned to the consequences of forsaking dharma: “Whoever abandons wealth and righteousness to follow desire quickly falls into misfortune, as King Daśaratha has. I think, gentle one, that Kaikeyī has come for the end of Daśaratha, for my exile, and for the kingdom for Bharata. I hope Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her good fortune, does not harass Kausalyā and Sumitrā because of me.” He grew concerned for his mother: “Let not Queen Sumitrā, because of me, dwell in sorrow; you, Lakṣmaṇa, should return to Ayodhyā at the proper time. I alone will go to Daṇḍaka with Sītā; for the mother who is left without support, you will be her protector, Lakṣmaṇa. Indeed, Kaikeyī, acting out of malice, may commit wrongful deeds; she might even hand over my mother to Bharata, who knows righteousness.” With a heavy heart, Rāma pondered the mysterious ways of fate: “Surely, in some other birth, women separated from their sons must have done something; even so, this has now come upon my mother. For Kausalyā, who raised me for so long and with much suffering, is now deprived of me at the time of her reward—shame on me.” Thus, in the deepening twilight, the exiles lay upon the forest floor, their hearts full of longing, concern, and steadfast resolve.