With reverence in her heart, Sītā spoke to the sacred Gaṅgā, vowing, “All the deities who dwell upon your banks, and every holy ford and shrine that graces your waters, I shall worship them all. May I, reunited with my strong-armed husband and his noble brother, return from the forest and enter Ayodhyā once more, O sinless Mother Gaṅgā.” Having offered her prayer, Sītā, flawless and steadfast, quickly made her way to the southern bank of the Gaṅgā. There, Rāma—the bull among men—stepped from the boat, joined by his devoted brother Lakṣmaṇa and the noble Vaidehī, Sītā herself. As they stood upon the riverbank, the mighty-armed Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa, son of Sumitrā, and spoke with gentle gravity, “Be ever vigilant for our protection, whether we are among people or alone in solitude. Especially in the unseen depths of the forest, our safety must be ensured. Go ahead, Saumitri, and let Sītā walk behind you. I will follow, guarding you both. Today, Sītā will come to know the hardship of forest life.” He continued, “No task is easily accomplished before its destined time; today, Vaidehī will truly experience the trials of the forest. She will enter a land deserted by people, barren of fields and gardens, filled with difficulties and steep descents.” Hearing Rāma’s words, Lakṣmaṇa set out ahead with resolve, leading the way, while Rāma, the delight of the Raghu lineage, followed after Sītā. Having swiftly crossed to the far shore of the Gaṅgā, Lakṣmaṇa gazed intently at Rāma, but as the journey lengthened and the distance grew, his gaze fell, and the ascetic’s heart grew heavy with tears. Yet, that great-souled one, whose power rivaled the guardians of the world, pressed onward. Having crossed the mighty river, the three approached prosperous villages, rich with beautiful crops and lively calves. There, they hunted four great beasts—a boar, a rṣya, a spotted deer, and a mighty stag. Taking the sacred meat, eager and hungry, they sought out the lord of the forest for shelter. As evening descended, Rāma approached a great tree and, observing the western twilight, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, “Today is the first night we spend outside the city. Separated from Sumitrā’s son, you should not be anxious. From this night onward, we must remain vigilant, never weary, for Sītā’s safety depends upon us, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us somehow pass this night, O Saumitri, spreading bedding on the ground with what we ourselves have gathered.” Though accustomed to luxurious beds, Rāma lay down upon the earth and spoke auspicious words to Lakṣmaṇa. Yet his heart turned to thoughts of home. “Surely tonight the great king sleeps in sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa, while Kaikeyī, having achieved her desire, must be satisfied. That queen, for the sake of the kingdom, would not hesitate to give up her life if she saw Bharata return. Now, helpless and aged, deprived of me, what will the self-indulgent king do, swayed as he is by Kaikeyī?” Rāma’s voice was tinged with sorrow and wisdom. “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 own son for the sake of a woman, as our father has done to me, always obedient to her will?” He reflected further, “Indeed, Bharata, son of Kaikeyī, is fortunate with his wife; he alone will enjoy the prosperous Kosala kingdom as sovereign. He will be the sole face of the entire kingdom, with our father aged and me dwelling in the forest. Whoever abandons wealth and righteousness for the sake of 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.” Rāma’s concern extended to his mothers. “I hope now Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her fortune, does not harass Kausalyā and Sumitrā because of me. 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 left without support, you will be her protector, Lakṣmaṇa.” He cautioned, “Indeed, Kaikeyī, acting out of malice, may commit wrongful deeds; she might even hand over my mother to Bharata, who knows righteousness. Surely, in some other birth, women separated from their sons must have done something; even so, this has now come upon my mother.” Rāma’s heart ached for Kausalyā. “For Kausalyā, who raised me for so long and with such suffering, is now deprived of me at the time of her reward—shame on me. Let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, O 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, O subduer of foes, to my mother, who is unfortunate and whom I, her son, cannot help at all as she grieves?” Overwhelmed by sorrow, Rāma continued, “Indeed, my mother Kausalyā, deprived of me, lies overwhelmed by the greatest sorrow, fallen into an ocean of grief. Alone, I could conquer Ayodhyā and even the earth with my arrows in anger, Lakṣmaṇa, but truly, valor is pointless. Fearing unrighteousness and the world beyond, O sinless one, that is why, Lakṣmaṇa, I do not anoint myself today.” Thus, in the quiet of the forest, beneath the twilight sky, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa passed their first night in exile, their hearts heavy with longing, yet steadfast in righteousness.