At a grand sacrifice, the mighty Varuṇa, pleased with King Janaka, bestowed upon him a splendid bow and quivers that would never be exhausted. This bow was of such immense weight that no man could move it, however hard he tried. Even the assembled kings, valiant and proud, could not so much as dream of bending it. Having received this wondrous bow, my father—ever steadfast in truth—proclaimed before all the gathered kings: “Whoever can raise this bow and string it shall win my daughter as his wife—there is no doubt.” The kings, beholding that magnificent bow, vast as a mountain, paid their respects and departed, unable to lift it. A long time passed. Then, the radiant Rāghava, Rāma, arrived at the sacrifice, accompanied by the sage Viśvāmitra and his steadfast brother Lakṣmaṇa. There, Viśvāmitra, honored and respected by my father, spoke to him of these two sons of Daśaratha. “These princes wish to see the bow. Show the divine bow to Rāma, the prince.” Thus addressed, my father brought forth the bow. In the blink of an eye, the valiant Rāma bent it, and with swift strength, he strung it. As he drew the bow with great force, it broke in two in the middle, the sound of its shattering echoing like thunder from the heavens. True to his word, my father resolved then to give me to Rāma, raising the sacred vessel of water for the ceremony. Yet Rāma, not knowing his own father’s wishes, did not accept me at that moment. Only after King Daśaratha was addressed and gave his assent did my father give me, Sītā, to Rāma, the knower of his own self. My virtuous younger sister, lovely Urmilā, was also given as wife to Lakṣmaṇa by my father. Thus, in that self-choice ceremony, I was given to Rāma, and I have remained ever devoted in righteousness to my husband, the foremost of the strong. Thus ends the one hundred eighteenth sarga of the illustrious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, in the ancient and noble Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. When Sītā finished her tale, the righteous Anasūyā, filled with affection, embraced her and kissed her gently on the head. “Your words were clear, well-spoken, and sweet, dear one. I have heard how your self-choice ceremony took place, and your story has delighted me.” The sun had set, and the auspicious night had arrived. The sounds of birds settling after a day of foraging filled the air. Ascetics, their garments still wet from evening ablutions, gathered with water jars in hand. When the sages had offered the prescribed oblations into the sacred fire, smoke tinged red like a dove’s body drifted upward, stirred by the breeze. The trees, though sparse of leaves, stood thick all around, making the directions indistinct even in that remote place. Creatures of the night began to stir, while the animals of the hermitage lay down quietly near the sacred bathing places. The night, adorned with stars, advanced, and the moon, wrapped in a luminous halo, rose in the sky. Anasūyā then spoke: “Go now, Sītā, and attend to Rāma. I am satisfied by your sweet words. But first, adorn yourself before me; bring me joy, dear child, shining with these divine ornaments.” Thus adorned, Sītā—radiant as a daughter of the gods—bowed her head to Anasūyā and went to Rāma. Rāghava, best among speakers, saw Sītā thus adorned and rejoiced at the affection shown by the ascetic woman. Sītā then told Rāma all about the gifts she had received: the garments, ornaments, and garlands. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa were filled with joy at the honor shown to Sītā, a distinction so rare among mortals. That night, Rāma, his face shining like the moon, spent the auspicious hours in contentment, welcomed by ascetics and perfected beings. When the night had passed, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, tigers among men, performed the morning fire rituals for the ascetics and took leave of the forest hermits. The forest-dwelling, righteous ascetics then spoke to them of the dangers that lurked in the woods, which were overrun by rākṣasas. “O Rāghava, in this great forest dwell rākṣasas—man-eaters of many forms—and wild beasts who feed on blood. These creatures attack ascetics devoted to righteousness, whether they are careless or have leftovers; protect them. This is the path of the great sages who gather fruits in the forest. By this way, O Rāghava, you should enter the difficult woods.” Having received the blessings of those ascetic Brāhmaṇas with joined palms, Rāghava, together with his wife Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, entered the deep forest, like the sun entering a mass of clouds. Thus ends the one hundred and nineteenth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the first great poem, consisting of twenty-four thousand verses. Let the first sarga now be heard in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.