Rāma, deeply concerned for Sītā’s well-being, gently described to her the hardships of forest life. He spoke of the lions whose thunderous roars, echoing from mountain caves and carried by mountain streams, were painful to hear and made the forest a place of distress. He told her how wild animals, fearless and intoxicated, wandered and played freely in deserted places, making the forest, in his eyes, sorrowful and unfit for her. He explained that the rivers there, muddy and teeming with crocodiles, were difficult even for elephants to cross, and that the forest was filled with suffering. The paths, he said, were choked with thorny vines and resounded with the cries of peacocks. Water was scarce, and the journey was exceedingly hard. One would have to sleep on beds of leaves, broken and scattered on the ground, and spend weary nights in toil—making the forest life even more painful. Rāma added that in the forest, one must be content with little, practicing self-restraint and living only on fruits fallen from the trees. Such a life, he said, was full of hardship. Fasting was to be observed as long as life lasted, and one must bear matted hair and wear garments of bark. Rites for the gods and ancestors had to be performed properly, and any guest who arrived was to be honored without fail. He described how those dwelling in the forest must bathe three times a day at the right times, always with discipline, making the forest life even more difficult. Offerings had to be made with flowers gathered by one’s own hand, according to Vedic rites. Contentment with whatever was found, he said, was essential, for the forest offered little. Fierce winds blew, darkness was constant, hunger was ever-present, and dangers abounded. Rāma painted a vivid picture of the dangers: serpents of every kind roamed the paths boldly; snakes lurked in the winding rivers, blocking the way; moths, scorpions, insects, and biting flies constantly tormented the weak. The trees were thorny, with dense kuśa and kāśa grasses and tangled branches. Bodily hardships and many fears awaited those who dwelled there. One had to abandon anger and greed, set the mind on austerity, and not fear what was fearful. Thus, he concluded, the forest was always full of hardship. He then gently told Sītā that it was not fitting for her to go to the forest, for there was no safety there. In his heart, he saw only danger for her and wished to protect her from such suffering. Yet, when Rāma, the great-souled one, decided not to take her, Sītā did not heed his words. Deeply distressed, she spoke to Rāma. Tears streaming down her face, Sītā answered slowly, her heart full of emotion. She told Rāma that all the faults he had described about forest life, out of her deep affection for him, seemed instead to be virtues in her eyes. She mentioned the deer, lions, elephants, tigers, sharabhas, camels, wild boars, and all the other creatures that roamed the forest. None of them, she said, had ever seen Rāma’s noble form before, and upon seeing him, all would flee in fear. Sītā insisted that she must go with him, as commanded by their elders, and that if she were separated from him, she would rather abandon her life. Even Indra, the king of the gods, could not harm her while she was near Rāma. She reminded him that a woman cannot survive without her husband and that he himself had shown her such an example. Sītā went on to say that, long ago in her father’s house, she had heard from learned brāhmaṇas that she was destined to dwell in the forest. Hearing this prophecy, she had always been eager for forest life. Now, as the time had come and the command was upon her, she wished to fulfill it, so that the brāhmaṇas’ words might come true. She assured Rāma that she knew of the many hardships of forest life, but believed they could be endured by those with a trained mind. As a maiden, she had heard of forest dwelling from a gentle mendicant woman in the presence of her mother. She reminded Rāma that she had often pleaded with him before to take her to the forest, for she longed to go with him. Sītā declared she was prepared for the journey, and that life in the forest with her heroic husband was appealing to her. With a pure heart and out of love, she would remain free from sin, for to her, the husband was the highest deity. Even after death, she said, their union would endure, for such was taught by the revered brāhmaṇas. She concluded that a woman, given in marriage according to dharma, remains her husband’s even after death. So, she questioned Rāma: why, being a virtuous and devoted wife from his own household, did he not wish to take her with him? Thus, Sītā spoke her heart, unwavering in her devotion and love.