As Sītā stood upon the forest path, her heart full of longing, she prayed, “May I, joined once more with my strong-armed husband and his brother, return to Ayodhyā from this forest, O sinless one.” With these words, the faultless Sītā hastened to the southern bank of the sacred Gaṅgā. There, Rāma—the bull among men—stepped from the boat, accompanied by his devoted brother Lakṣmaṇa and the noble Vaidehī, Sītā herself. Once upon the bank, Rāma, mighty-armed and resolute, turned to Lakṣmaṇa, the son of Sumitrā, and spoke with care, “Be ever vigilant for our protection, whether among people or in the solitude of the wild.” He stressed the need for constant watchfulness, especially in the unseen dangers of the forest. “Go ahead, Saumitri,” he instructed, “and let Sītā follow you. I will walk behind, guarding you both. Today, Vaidehī will come to know the true hardship of forest life.” Rāma reflected aloud, “No action is easily accomplished before its destined time; today, Sītā will indeed experience the difficulty of forest dwelling. She will enter a land deserted by people, without fields or gardens, filled with hardships and steep descents.” Hearing these words, Lakṣmaṇa moved ahead as instructed, Sītā followed, and Rāma, the delight of the Raghu lineage, walked behind them, ever watchful. Having crossed to the far shore of the Gaṅgā, Lakṣmaṇa gazed back at Rāma with deep affection, but the long journey forced him to turn his eyes forward again. The ascetic who had ferried them, overcome with grief, shed tears at their departure. The three noble souls, their strength rivaling the very guardians of the world, pressed onward. They passed through prosperous villages, lush with beautiful crops and playful calves. Along the way, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa hunted four great forest beasts—a boar, an ṛṣya, a spotted deer, and a mighty stag. With sacred meat in hand, eager and hungry, they hastened to seek shelter with the lord of the forest. As twilight fell in the west, Rāma approached a great tree and spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, his voice gentle yet resolute. “Tonight is our first night spent outside the city. Do not be anxious, though we are separated from Sumitrā’s son. From this night forth, we must remain alert through every hour, for Sītā’s safety depends upon us, Lakṣmaṇa. Let us somehow pass this night, spreading bedding on the ground from what we can gather ourselves.” Though accustomed to a bed of luxury, Rāma lay down upon the bare earth and spoke auspicious words to Lakṣmaṇa. Yet his heart turned to thoughts of Ayodhyā, and sorrow clouded his mind. “Surely tonight, the great king, my father, sleeps in grief, while Kaikeyī, having fulfilled her desire, must be satisfied. That queen, for the sake of the kingdom, would not hesitate to give up her very life if she saw Bharata return.” He continued, his voice heavy with pain, “Helpless and aged, deprived of me, what will my self-indulgent father do, now under Kaikeyī’s sway? Witnessing his confusion and misfortune, I see 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?” Rāma pondered the fate of his brother. “Bharata, son of Kaikeyī, is truly fortunate with his wife. He alone will enjoy the prosperous kingdom of Kosala as sovereign. He will be the sole face of the realm, 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.” He spoke softly, “I think, gentle one, that Kaikeyī has brought about the end of Daśaratha, my exile, and the kingdom for Bharata. I hope Kaikeyī, intoxicated by her good 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.” Rāma’s worries deepened. “Kaikeyī, acting out of malice, may commit wrongful deeds; she might even hand over my mother to Bharata, who knows righteousness. Surely, in some past 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 with such suffering, is now deprived of me at the very time she should have been rewarded—shame on me.” He lamented, “Let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, Saumitri, who brings endless grief to his mother. I think, Lakṣmaṇa, that even the pet starling is dearer to her than I am, as she listens to its words and counts the toes of her enemy’s parrot. What use am I, O subduer of foes, to my mother, whom I cannot help at all as she grieves? My mother Kausalyā, deprived of me, lies overwhelmed by the greatest sorrow, lost in an ocean of grief.” Rāma’s voice trembled with suppressed power. “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 I do not anoint myself today.” Having spoken these and many other sorrowful words in the lonely forest, Rāma, his face wet with tears, sat silently through the night, his heart weighed down by the pain of separation and the burdens of dharma.