In the presence of many assembled kings, my father, ever truthful, received the sacred bow and proclaimed: “Whosoever raises this bow and strings it shall win my daughter as his wife—there is no doubt about it.” The kings, seeing that mighty bow, massive as a mountain, paid their respects and departed, unable to lift it. After a long time, Rāma, radiant and noble, arrived with the sage Viśvāmitra to witness the sacrifice, accompanied by his steadfast brother Lakṣmaṇa. There, Viśvāmitra, honored by my father and revered for his righteousness, spoke to him about the two brothers, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. “These sons of Daśaratha wish to see the bow; show the divine bow to Rāma, the prince,” he said. Thus addressed, my father brought forth the bow. In the blink of an eye, the valiant Rāma bent it, and with great strength, strung it. As he drew the bow with force, it broke in the middle, splitting into two with a terrifying sound, like thunder falling from the sky. True to his word, my father resolved to give me to Rāma, raising the ceremonial vessel of water. At that moment, however, Rāma did not accept what was being offered, uncertain of his own father Daśaratha’s wishes. Then, after speaking with my aged father-in-law, King Daśaratha, my father gave me to Rāma, who knows himself deeply. My virtuous younger sister, the lovely Urmilā, was also given by my father as wife to Lakṣmaṇa. Thus, I was given to Rāma at that self-choice ceremony, and I have been devoted in righteousness to my husband, the best among the strong. Thus ends the one hundred eighteenth sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and noble Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. After hearing this story, Anasūyā, wise in righteousness, embraced Maithilī with her arms and kissed her tenderly on the head. “Your words are clear, well-formed, and sweet,” she said. “I have heard from you how the self-choice ceremony took place, and I am truly delighted by your tale.” The sun had set, and the auspicious night had arrived. The sounds of birds settling for sleep after their day’s search for food filled the air. Ascetics, still wet from their ablutions and holding water jars, gathered together, their garments soaked from bathing. As the seers offered their prescribed oblations into the sacred fires, smoke tinged red like a dove’s body drifted, stirred by the wind. Trees with few leaves had grown dense all around, obscuring the directions even in this remote place. Night creatures began to stir everywhere, while the forest animals of the hermitage lay down at the sacred bathing places. The night advanced fully, Sītā adorned with stars, and the moon, veiled in its own light, rose in the sky. Anasūyā said, “Go now, I give you leave; be an attendant to Rāma. I am satisfied by your sweet words. Now, Maithilī, adorn yourself before me; bring me joy, dear child, shining with divine ornaments.” Thus adorned, Sītā—equal to a daughter of the gods—bowed her head to Anasūyā and went towards Rāma. Rāma, best among speakers, saw Sītā thus adorned and rejoiced at the gift of affection from the ascetic woman. Sītā told Rāma everything—the garments, ornaments, and garlands gifted by the ascetic. Rāma and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa were filled with joy at the honor shown to Maithilī, an honor rare among humans. Delighted, Rāma, his face radiant like the moon, spent that auspicious night, welcomed by ascetics and perfected beings. When the night had passed, the two tigers among men performed fire rituals for the ascetics and took leave of the forest-dwelling hermits. The ascetics spoke to them about the dangers of the forest, which was 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 careless or with leftovers—protect them. This is the path of the great sages who gather fruits in the forest; by this way, O Rāghava, it is proper for you to enter the difficult woods.” Having received blessings from the ascetic Brāhmaṇas, Rāghava, together with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa, entered the forest like the sun entering a mass of clouds. Thus ends the one hundred and nineteenth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the first great poem, consisting of twenty-four thousand verses. Let the first sarga be heard in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Encircled by kuśa grass and bark garments, endowed with divine splendor, the hermitage shone like the blazing, hard-to-behold orb of the sun in the sky. It was a refuge for all beings, its courtyard always clean, teeming with many deer and surrounded by flocks of birds.