After a long time had passed, the radiant Rāghava—Rāma—accompanied by the sage Viśvāmitra, arrived at the site of King Janaka’s great sacrifice. With him was his steadfast brother, Lakṣmaṇa, both unwavering in truth and valor. There, Viśvāmitra, honored by Janaka and renowned for his righteousness, spoke to the king about the two brothers, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. “These two sons of Daśaratha wish to see the bow,” Viśvāmitra said. “Show the divine bow to Rāma, the prince.” At the sage’s request, King Janaka brought forth the mighty bow. In the blink of an eye, the valiant Rāma bent it with ease, and swiftly, with great strength, he strung the bow. As Rāma drew the bow with force, it broke in two with a tremendous sound—terrifying, like thunder crashing from the heavens. Having witnessed this wondrous feat, Janaka, true to his promise, resolved to give his daughter to Rāma. He raised the sacred vessel of water, prepared to perform the ritual of giving Sītā’s hand. But at that moment, Rāghava did not accept what was offered, for he did not yet know the wishes of his father, King Daśaratha of Ayodhyā. Then, after speaking with the aged Daśaratha, King Janaka gave his daughter Sītā to Rāma, who was self-knowing and steadfast. Janaka also gave his virtuous younger daughter, the lovely Urmilā, in marriage to Lakṣmaṇa. Thus, at that self-choice ceremony, I, Sītā, was given to Rāma and became devoted to him in righteousness, for he is 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. Hearing this tale, the venerable Anasūyā, wise in righteousness, embraced Maithilī Sītā with affection and kissed her gently on the head. “Your words are clear, well-formed, and sweet,” she said. “I have heard from you the whole story of your self-choice ceremony, O sweet speaker, and I am truly delighted by your account.” As they spoke, the sun had set and the auspicious night descended. The sounds of birds settling to sleep after a day of searching for food filled the air. The ascetics, their garments still wet from evening ablutions, gathered together, holding their water jars. When the sages had offered their prescribed oblations into the sacred fires, smoke tinged red—like the body of a dove—rose and drifted on the wind. Around them, the trees, though sparse of leaves, had grown dense, obscuring the directions even in that remote place. Night creatures began to stir, while the animals of the hermitage lay resting by the sacred bathing places. The night deepened, adorned with stars, and the moon, veiled in its own gentle light, rose into the sky. Anasūyā then spoke to Sītā, “Go now, I give you leave; attend to Rāma. I am satisfied by your sweet words. But first, Maithilī, adorn yourself before me; bring me joy, dear child, shining with divine ornaments.” Thus adorned, Sītā, radiant as a daughter of the gods, bowed her head in reverence and went towards Rāma. When Rāghava, best among speakers, saw Sītā thus adorned, he rejoiced at the kindness shown by the ascetic woman. Sītā told Rāma everything—the tokens of affection she had received: garments, ornaments, and garlands. Rāma and mighty Lakṣmaṇa were filled with joy at the honor shown to Sītā, an honor so rare among mortals. That night, the delighted Rāma, his face radiant like the moon, spent the auspicious hours in the company of ascetics and perfected beings, warmly welcomed among them. When dawn broke, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, the tigers among men, performed the morning fire rituals for the ascetics and took leave of the forest-dwelling sages. The righteous ascetics then spoke to them about the dangers lurking in the forest, warning of rākṣasas—man-eaters of many forms—and wild beasts who fed on blood. “O Rāghava,” they said, “in this great forest dwell rākṣasas who attack ascetics devoted to righteousness, whether careless or while eating leftovers; protect them. This is the path of the great sages who gather forest fruits; by this way, O Rāghava, you should enter the difficult woods.” Having received the blessings of those ascetic Brāhmaṇas, Rāghava, together with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, entered the forest as the sun enters 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. Now begins the Araṇya Kāṇḍa, the first sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. There stood a hermitage, encircled by kuśa grass and bark garments, shining with a divine splendor like the blazing, hard-to-behold orb of the sun in the sky. It was a refuge for all beings, its courtyard always kept clean, teeming with many deer and surrounded by flocks of birds. The place was constantly honored and attended by groups of Apsarases, adorned with spacious fire-altars, ladles, vessels, deerskins, and kuśa grass. It was graced with kindling sticks, water pots, fruits, and roots, and shaded by great forest trees bearing auspicious, sweet fruits. The air was sanctified by offerings and oblations, resounding with the chanting of Brahman, and the hermitage was encircled by various flowers and a lotus pond filled with beautiful lotuses.