With unwavering devotion and a heart wholly attached to Rāma, Sītā, distressed by the thought of separation, pleaded with him: “If I must be parted from you, I am resolved to die. Please, grant me this one request—take me with you. I will not add to your burden.” Her words, spoken with righteousness and deep love, were filled with longing and resolve. Yet Rāma, the foremost among men, did not wish to take Sītā with him into the forest. He spoke at length, gently trying to dissuade her, addressing her sorrow and fears about dwelling in the wilderness. Rāma, ever devoted to dharma, listened to Sītā’s earnest plea. He knew her virtue and her steadfastness, but his mind was troubled by the many hardships of forest life. He could not bring himself to decide to take her. Seeing Sītā’s tear-stained eyes, he sought to comfort her, and with a heart full of care, he spoke words meant to persuade her to remain behind. “Sītā,” he said softly, “you are born of noble lineage and always devoted to righteousness. Remain here and practice virtue so that my mind may be at ease. Gentle one, you must do as I ask. Listen well, for there are many dangers in the forest for those who dwell there. Let go of this intention to accompany me; the wilderness is called so because it is full of dangers. I speak this out of concern and wise counsel. In the forest, I have never known happiness—only sorrow. The roars of lions, echoing from mountain caves and streams, are painful to hear. Wild animals, fearless and intoxicated, roam deserted places; seeing them brings distress. Rivers choked with crocodiles are muddy and hard to cross; even mighty elephants struggle there. The paths are tangled with thorny vines, the air filled with the cries of peacocks, water is scarce, and hardship is everywhere. At night, one must sleep on beds of leaves, broken and scattered on the ground, weary from the day’s toil. Day and night, contentment and self-restraint are needed, living only on fruits that have fallen from trees. Fasting must be observed as long as life endures, O Maithili, and one must wear matted hair and garments of bark. Rites for the gods and ancestors must be performed as prescribed, and guests honored always. A thrice-daily bath must be taken at the proper times, with unwavering discipline. Offerings must be made with flowers gathered by oneself, according to the Vedic rites. One must be content with whatever is found in the forest, O Sītā, and eat whatever food is available. There are fierce winds, darkness, and constant hunger, and dangers abound. Many serpents of various forms roam boldly along the paths. Snakes dwelling in rivers block the way. Moths, scorpions, insects, and biting flies always torment the weak. The trees are thorny, and grasses grow thick with tangled branches. For one dwelling in the wilderness, there are countless bodily hardships and many fears. Anger and greed must be abandoned, and the mind set on austerity; one must not fear what is fearful. For all these reasons, Sītā, it is not fitting for you to go to the forest. There is no safety for you there. As I consider, I see only danger in the wilderness.” Despite Rāma’s heartfelt words and his reluctance to take her, Sītā did not heed his counsel. Her heart was set, and, deeply distressed, she prepared to answer him. Tears streamed down her face as Sītā, her voice trembling, spoke slowly to Rāma: “All the faults you have mentioned about living in the forest—out of my love for you, I see them as virtues. The deer, lions, elephants, tigers, sharabhas, camels, wild boars, and all the other creatures that roam the forest—none of them have ever seen your form before, O Rāghava. When they see you, they will flee, for all are afraid of you. I must go with you, as commanded by our elders. If I am to be separated from you, Rāma, I would rather abandon my life here. Even Indra himself, lord of the gods, could not harm me while I am near you. A woman bereft of her husband cannot survive—Rāma, you yourself have shown me this truth. Moreover, wise one, I have heard from brāhmaṇas, long ago in my father’s house, that I must indeed dwell in the forest. Hearing this prophecy from learned brāhmaṇas, I have always been eager for forest life. It is said that I am destined to receive the command for forest dwelling. So, with you, my husband, I will go—there is no other way, my beloved.” Thus, with love and steadfastness, Sītā declared her resolve to follow Rāma into the forest, undeterred by hardship or fear, her heart bound to his by devotion and destiny.