With deep reverence, Sītā stood on the banks of the sacred Gaṅgā and, her heart full of devotion, made a solemn vow: “O goddess, when I return to the city, I will worship you with a thousand jars of wine and offerings of rice with meat; with true devotion, I will honor you.” She extended her promise to all the deities who dwelled along the river’s banks, the holy fords, and the shrines scattered there—she would worship them all. Then, with gentle hope, Sītā prayed, “May I, reunited with my strong-armed husband and his brother, return from the forest and re-enter Ayodhyā, O sinless one.” Having spoken thus, the virtuous Sītā quickly crossed to the southern bank of the Gaṅgā. There, Rāma—the bull among men—left the boat with his brother Lakṣmaṇa and the noble Sītā, and together they set out on their journey. Rāma, mighty-armed and ever watchful, turned to Lakṣmaṇa, the joy of Sumitrā, and said, “Be ever vigilant for our protection, whether we are among people or in solitude. Especially in the unseen loneliness of the forest, our safety must be assured. Go ahead of us, Saumitri, and let Sītā follow you. I will walk behind, guarding you both. Today, dear Vaidehī will experience the true hardship of forest life.” He continued, “No task is easily accomplished before its time; today, Sītā will indeed come to know the difficulty of dwelling in the forest. She will enter a place deserted by people, without fields or gardens, full of challenges and steep descents.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Lakṣmaṇa set out ahead, leading the way, while Rāma, the delight of the Raghu lineage, followed behind Sītā. Having swiftly crossed to the far shore of the Gaṅgā, Sumitrā’s son looked back at Rāma with longing, but as the journey lengthened, his gaze returned to the path ahead. The ascetic, distressed by the separation, shed tears. Yet, that great-souled one—whose power rivaled the guardians of the world—pressed on, and together they gradually approached prosperous villages, lush with beautiful crops and playful calves. In the forest, the brothers hunted and killed four great beasts—a boar, a ṛṣya, a spotted deer, and a mighty stag. Taking the sacred meat, eager and hungry, they quickly sought shelter with the lord of the forest. As evening fell, Rāma approached a great tree and, observing the western twilight, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa: “Today is the first night we spend outside the city. Though you are separated from Sumitrā, do not be anxious. From this day forward, we must remain vigilant each night, never weary, for Sītā’s safety rests with us. Let us somehow pass this night, Saumitri, spreading bedding on the bare ground with what we ourselves have gathered.” Rāma, though accustomed to a luxurious bed, lay down upon the earth and spoke gentle, auspicious words to Lakṣmaṇa. “Surely tonight the great king sleeps in sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa, while Kaikeyī, having fulfilled her desire, must be satisfied. That queen, for the sake of the kingdom, would not hesitate even to give up her life upon seeing Bharata return. But our helpless, aged father—deprived of me and now under Kaikeyī’s sway—what will he do? Seeing his misfortune and confusion, I realize 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, always obedient to her? Indeed, Bharata, Kaikeyī’s son, is fortunate—he alone will enjoy the prosperous Kosala kingdom as king. He will become the sole face of the kingdom, with our father aged and me dwelling in the forest. Whoever abandons wealth and righteousness to follow desire quickly falls into misfortune, as King Daśaratha has. “I think, gentle one, that Kaikeyī has brought about the end of Daśaratha, my exile, and the kingdom for Bharata. I hope, intoxicated by her good fortune, she does not torment Kausalyā and Sumitrā because of me. Let not Queen Sumitrā dwell in sorrow on my account; you, Lakṣmaṇa, should return to Ayodhyā at the right time. I alone will go to Daṇḍaka with Sītā; for the mother left without support, you must be her protector, Lakṣmaṇa. “Indeed, Kaikeyī, acting out of malice, may commit wrongful deeds; she might even hand my mother over to Bharata, who knows righteousness. Surely, in some other birth, women separated from their sons must have done something to deserve this; even so, this has now come upon my mother. For Kausalyā, who raised me so long and with such suffering, is now deprived of me at the very time she should receive her reward—shame on me. “Let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, Saumitri, who brings endless grief to his mother. I think, Lakṣmaṇa, that the pet starling is dearer to her than I am, whose words she hears as she counts the toes of her enemy’s parrot. What use am I, subduer of foes, to my mother, who is so unfortunate and whom I, her son, cannot help as she grieves? Indeed, my mother Kausalyā, deprived of me, lies overwhelmed by the greatest sorrow, lost in an ocean of grief. “Alone, I could conquer Ayodhyā and even the earth with my arrows in anger, Lakṣmaṇa, but truly, what use is valor now?” Thus, on that first night in the forest, the exiled prince poured out his heart to his brother, as the three—Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa—rested on the bare earth, their hearts heavy with longing, yet steadfast in dharma.