With her heart steadfast and her mind resolute, Sītā approached Rāma and spoke with deep devotion, “I will go to the forest, though it is exceedingly difficult and teeming with deer, monkeys, and elephants. I shall dwell there as if it were my father’s house, holding your feet with reverence, if only you approve. With unwavering devotion and a heart wholly attached to you, I cannot bear separation; if parted from you, I am resolved to die. Kindly grant me this request and take me with you, for I will not add to your burden.” Though Sītā spoke thus, full of righteousness and virtue, the noble-hearted Rāma, foremost among men, did not wish to take her. He spoke many gentle words, hoping to dissuade her and ease her sorrow at the thought of dwelling in the forest. Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness and recognizing Sītā’s steadfast virtue, pondered her words. Yet, his heart was troubled by the many hardships of forest life, and he did not resolve to take her with him. Seeing her eyes stained with tears, he sought to comfort her and began to speak words of gentle persuasion. “Sītā,” he said, “you are born of noble lineage and ever devoted to righteousness. Remain here and practice virtue, so that my mind may be at peace. O gentle one, you must do as I say. Listen to me, for there are countless dangers in the forest for those who reside there. Let go of your desire to live in the wilderness; it is called a forest because it is fraught with peril. “I speak out of love and wise counsel. In the forest, there is no happiness—only sorrow. The roars of lions, echoing from mountain caves, are painful to hear. Wild animals, fearless and intoxicated, roam deserted places; encountering them brings only distress. The rivers are muddy, filled with crocodiles, and difficult to cross—even for elephants. The paths are overgrown with thorny vines, echoing with peacock cries, lacking water and exceedingly hard to traverse. “One must sleep on beds of leaves, scattered and broken upon the ground, weary with toil even at night. Day and night, one must be content with little, restrain oneself, and live on fruits fallen from the trees. Fasting is to be observed as long as life endures, O Maithili, and one must wear matted hair and bark garments. Rites for the gods and ancestors must be performed according to rule, and guests must always be honored. Three times daily, one must bathe at the proper hours with discipline. Offerings must be made with flowers gathered by one’s own hand, according to Vedic rites upon the altar. “One must be content with whatever is found in the forest, O Maithili, and eat whatever food is available. There are fierce winds, darkness, and constant hunger, with dangers at every turn. Many serpents of various forms roam the paths, and snakes dwelling in the rivers block the way. Moths, scorpions, insects, and biting flies always torment the weak. The trees are thorny, with tangled branches of kuśa and kāśa grass. Many bodily hardships and fears beset those dwelling in the wilderness. Anger and greed must be abandoned, the mind set on austerity, and one must not fear what is fearful. “Therefore, Sītā, it is not fitting for you to go to the forest. There is no safety for you there. When I consider all this, I see the forest is filled with many dangers.” But though Rāma, the great-souled one, spoke thus and did not decide to take her, Sītā did not heed his words. Deeply distressed, she spoke to Rāma, her face streaming with tears. “Hear me, Rāma,” Sītā began, her voice trembling. “The faults you have described about living in the forest—out of my deep affection for you, I see them instead as virtues. Deer, lions, elephants, tigers, sharabhas, camels, wild boars, and all other creatures that roam the forest—none of them, O Rāghava, have ever seen your form. When they behold you, they will flee in fear; for all are afraid of you. “I must go with you, for our elders have commanded it. If I am separated from you, Rāma, I would rather abandon my life here. Even Indra, lord of the gods, could not harm me by force while I am near you. A woman bereft of her husband cannot survive—you yourself have shown me such an example. “Moreover, O wise one, I have heard from learned brāhmaṇas, long ago in my father’s house, that I must indeed dwell in the forest. Hearing this prophecy from those brāhmaṇas at home, O mighty one, I have always been eager for forest life.” Thus, Sītā revealed her unwavering resolve and love, her heart set firmly on sharing Rāma’s fate, no matter the hardship or danger that lay ahead.