When Sita heard Rama’s words, her heart was overcome with distress. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to compose herself, and then she spoke slowly and earnestly to him. “My beloved, the difficulties you have described about life in the forest—because of my deep affection for you, I see them not as hardships, but as blessings. You speak of wild creatures—deer, lions, elephants, tigers, sharabhas, camels, wild boars, and others who roam those woods. But, O Raghava, none of them have ever beheld your form before. When they do, they will flee at the very sight of you, for all living things are in awe of your might. I must accompany you, for so the elders have commanded. If I am left behind, Rama, I could not survive; I would rather abandon my life here than live separated from you. Even Indra himself, lord of the gods, could not harm me by force while I am by your side. A woman cannot live without her husband, and you have shown me this truth. Moreover, wise one, I have heard from brahmanas in my father’s house, long ago, that I am destined to dwell in the forest. Remembering their prophecy, my heart has always been eager for forest life. It is said that I must receive the command to live in the woods, and so, with you, my lord, I will go—there is no other path for me. At last, the time has come for me to fulfill that command and depart with you; let the words of the brahmanas come true. I know, O hero, that life in the forest is filled with many hardships, which are endured only by those whose minds are not yet disciplined. Yet, as a maiden in my father’s house, I heard of forest life from a gentle, mendicant woman who spoke before my mother. Many times before, I have pleaded with you, my lord, to take me to the forest, for I have longed to go with you. Now I am prepared, O Raghava, for the journey. The life of a hero in the forest appeals to me. With a pure heart, out of love, I shall remain free from sin, always following my husband, for to me, the husband is the highest deity. Even after death, O blessed one, my bond with you will endure; so it is taught by the revered brahmanas. In this world, the woman whom a man receives from his ancestors, through the sacred rite of water and according to his duty, remains his even beyond death. Why, then, do you not wish to take me, your devoted and virtuous wife, from your own household? What reason could there be for this? You ought to take me, who is faithful, destitute, devoted, and equal to you in happiness and sorrow, O descendant of Kakutstha—one who shares your joys and pains. If you do not wish to take me, so afflicted, to the forest, then I will embrace poison, fire, or water, choosing death instead. Thus, Sita pleaded with Rama in many ways, seeking to accompany him. Yet, though mighty-armed, Rama did not agree to take her to the lonely forest. Overwhelmed by his refusal, Maithili was seized by anxiety, her warm tears bathing the earth. Seeing Sita so troubled, Rama, descendant of Kakutstha, wished to dissuade her. He spoke to Vaidehi, who was now seized by anger, consoling her with many gentle words. Consoled by Rama’s words, Sita, daughter of Janaka, spoke again to her husband, yearning to dwell with him in the forest. Though still greatly distressed, she addressed Raghava, whose chest was broad, her tone filled with affection and pride. “What did my father, the king of Mithila, think when he chose you as his son-in-law, Rama? Did he see a woman in the form of a man? Alas, if people out of ignorance ever say that Rama lacks great energy, they are mistaken—for you shine resplendently, like the sun itself. What have you done to be so troubled, or what do you fear, that you would abandon me, who has no other refuge? Know me to be like Savitri, devoted to Satyavan, the heroic son of Dyumatsena—always acting according to your will. I shall never, even in thought, look upon any man but you, O faultless one; I would go with you, Raghava, as any devoted wife would, for to do otherwise would bring disgrace to my family. Yet you seem to wish to give away your wife, who is pure and has been with you since youth, as though I were a dancer to be offered to others, O Rama. To the one for whom you act rightly, and to whom you have spoken what is proper, you should always remain obedient and compliant, O faultless one. Without taking me, you should not set out for the forest; whether it be asceticism, the wilderness, or even heaven, let me be with you. I shall not feel any weariness on the path, as I follow behind you, just as I do in times of leisure and rest. The kusha grass, reeds, sharp stalks, and thorny trees along the way will feel, with you beside me, as soft as cotton or deerskin. Beloved, the dust raised by the great wind and falling upon me, I will cherish as if it were precious sandalwood paste. When I lie down on grassy patches in the forest, with bedding made of leaves, what could be more pleasant than that? And whatever leaves, roots, or fruits you bring me—whether little or much—I will receive as sweet as nectar itself.” Thus Sita, her devotion unwavering, spoke from her heart, seeking only to share Rama’s path, no matter how difficult, for her love and duty to him were greater than any hardship.