As Sītā stood before Rāma, her voice was gentle yet firm, and her eyes shone with unwavering resolve. “O prince,” she said, “such words as you have spoken—unworthy and disgraceful—should never pass your lips, especially among heroes, sons of kings, and those skilled in arms. Each person—father, mother, brother, son, and daughter-in-law—enjoys the fruits of their own deeds and pursues their own destiny. But a wife alone partakes in her husband’s destiny, O best of men; that is why I, too, have been instructed to dwell in the forest with you. “For women, neither father, nor son, nor mother, nor even herself or friends, is the true path—here or hereafter. The husband alone is always her way. So, if you set out today for the difficult forest, O Rāghava, I will go before you, clearing the grass and thorns from your path. I have cast away all jealousy and anger, as one discards water after drinking. Lead me, O hero, with confidence—there is no sin in me. “Whether atop a palace, in a flying chariot, or moving through the sky, in every circumstance, the shade of a husband’s feet is the highest refuge for a wife. My mother and father have given me many instructions, but now there is nothing more to say—I must act as I have resolved. “I will go to the difficult forest, devoid of men, filled with many kinds of deer and frequented by groups of tigers. I will dwell there happily, just as in my father’s house, caring nothing for the three worlds, thinking only of my devotion to you, my husband. Serving you always, disciplined and chaste, I will delight with you, O hero, in the honey-scented woods. “You, Rāma, are able to protect even others in the forest—how much more so me, O giver of honor! Therefore, I will go with you to the forest today, without doubt. O greatly fortunate one, once I am resolved, I cannot be turned back. “I will always subsist on fruits and roots, and I will not cause you any distress, dwelling with you constantly. I will walk ahead of you and eat only after you have eaten; then I wish to see the mountains, ponds, and lakes. With you as my wise protector, I will fearlessly behold the lotus ponds, filled with swans and cranes, blooming beautifully. Joined with you, O hero, I wish to happily see them and perform ablutions in those ponds, always devoted to you. “With you, O wide-eyed one, I will delight in supreme happiness for a thousand years or even a hundred, together with you. I will not transgress; even heaven holds no allure for me. If it were possible to reside in heaven without you, O Rāghava, O tiger among men, I would not desire even that. “I will go to the forest, though it is exceedingly difficult, filled with deer, monkeys, and elephants. I will dwell there as in my father’s house, holding your feet with your approval. With unwavering devotion and a heart attached to you, if separated from you, I am resolved to die. Take me, kindly grant my request, and I promise I will not be a burden to you.” Though Sītā spoke thus, full of righteousness, Rāma, the foremost of men, was still reluctant to take her. He spoke many words to dissuade her, addressing her sorrow about life in the forest. Now, as the next chapter unfolds, Rāma, ever righteous and loving virtue, listened to Sītā’s steadfast plea, knowing her purity and devotion. Yet he hesitated, pondering the hardships that lay ahead. Seeing her eyes glistening with tears, he sought to comfort her and gently persuade her to remain behind. “Sītā,” Rāma began, “you are of noble lineage and ever devoted to righteousness. Remain here, practicing virtue, so that my mind may be at ease. Do as I ask, O gentle one, and listen well, for the forest is full of dangers for those who dwell there. “Let go of this intention to live in the wilderness; it is called so because it is fraught with peril. I speak out of concern and wise counsel. There, I never know happiness—only sorrow, always, in the forest. “The roars of lions, born from mountain streams and living in mountain caves, are painful to hear; the forest is distressing for this reason. Wild animals, fearless and intoxicated, roam deserted places; seeing them, Sītā, the forest fills one with sorrow. “The rivers, filled with crocodiles, are muddy and hard to cross; even for elephants, the forest is more difficult and full of suffering. The paths are overgrown with thorny vines, echoing with the cries of peacocks, lacking water and exceedingly hard—the forest is full of hardship. “One sleeps on beds of leaves, broken and scattered on the ground, weary from toil at night—thus, the forest is even more painful. Day and night, one must be content, with self-restraint, living on fruits fallen from trees—thus, Sītā, the forest is full of hardship. “Fasting must be observed as long as life endures, O Maithili, and one must bear matted hair and wear garments of bark. Rites for the gods and ancestors must be performed according to rule, and arriving guests must always be honored. A thrice-daily bath must be performed at the proper times, always with discipline—thus, the forest is even more difficult. “Offerings must be made with flowers gathered by oneself, according to the Vedic rite upon the altar—thus, Sītā, the forest is full of hardship. Contentment must be maintained with whatever is obtained, O Maithili, and with whatever food is found in the forest—thus, Sītā, the forest is full of hardship.” In this way, Rāma gently laid before Sītā the many hardships of the forest, his heart heavy with concern, hoping to dissuade her from accompanying him into the unknown wilderness.