Sītā, her heart resolute and her voice trembling with devotion, pleaded with Rāma, “By the command of our elders, I must go with you. If I am separated from you, Rāma, I would rather abandon my life here and now. Even Indra himself, O Rāghava—lord of the gods—could not harm me while I am near you. But without you, I cannot survive; you have shown me, beloved, what it means for a wife to be bereft of her husband. Long ago, in my father’s house, I heard from learned brāhmaṇas that I was destined to dwell in the forest. Hearing this prophecy, O mighty one, I have always been eager for forest life, anticipating the day I would join you there. It is said I must receive the command to live in the forest, and so, with you, my husband, I will go—there is no other way for me, beloved. The time has come to fulfill that prophecy; let the brāhmaṇas’ words come true. I know well, O hero, that the forest is full of hardships, endured especially by those whose minds are untrained. As a maiden in my father’s home, I once heard a gentle mendicant woman speak of forest life before my mother. Since then, I have often entreated you, my lord, to take me with you, for I have longed for this journey. I am prepared, O Rāghava, for the life of the forest; it appeals to me, the life of a hero’s companion. With a pure heart and deep love, I will remain free from sin, following my husband—my highest deity. Even after death, O blessed one, my union with you will endure; so say the sacred teachings of renowned brāhmaṇas. In this world, a woman given in marriage according to dharma remains her husband’s, even after death. So why, from your own household, do you not wish to take me—a virtuous and devoted wife? By what reason do you leave me behind? You ought to take me, O descendant of Kakutstha, for I am devoted and faithful, sharing equally in your happiness and sorrow. If you do not wish to take me, so afflicted, to the forest, then I shall embrace poison, fire, or water—for death is preferable to life without you.” In many ways Sītā pleaded with Rāma to let her accompany him, but the mighty-armed one did not consent to take her to the lonely forest. Overwhelmed by anxiety, Maithilī’s eyes overflowed with tears, as if she bathed the earth with her sorrow. Seeing her so troubled, Rāma, wishing to dissuade her, tried to console Vaidehī with gentle words, though she was seized by grief and anger. Consoled by Rāma, Sītā, daughter of Janaka, spoke again, her voice filled with both affection and pride, intent on persuading her husband. “What did my father, the king of Mithilā, think when he gave you my hand in marriage, Rāma? Did he see a woman in the form of a man? If people say, out of ignorance, that Rāma lacks great energy, they are wrong—for you shine like the sun. What have you done to be so troubled, or what do you fear, that you wish to abandon me, who has no other refuge? Know me to be like Savitrī, devoted to Satyavān, always acting according to your will. I will not, in my heart, look upon anyone but you, O faultless one. I would go with you, Rāghava, just as another woman might, but I would not bring disgrace upon my family. Do you wish to give your pure and faithful wife—who has lived with you since youth—to others, like a dancer, O Rāma? To the one for whom you strive, and to whom you have spoken what is proper, you should always be obedient and kind, O faultless one. Without me, you should not set out for the forest. Whether it be asceticism, the wilderness, or even heaven, let it be with you. I will not feel weary on the path as I follow you, just as I do in times of leisure and rest. The kuśa grass, reeds, sharp stalks, and thorny trees along the way will feel, with you beside me, as soft as cotton or deer skin. Beloved, the dust raised by the great wind will fall upon me, and I will regard it as 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? Whatever leaves, roots, or fruits you bring me, whether little or much, I will consider as sweet as nectar. There, I will not remember my mother, father, or home, as I enjoy the flowers and fruits of the seasons. Nor should you expect to see anything unpleasant; because of me, you will not have sorrow, nor will I become a burden to you. With you, even heaven is heaven; without you, it is hell. Knowing this, O Rāma, go with me, for my highest love is for you. But if you do not take me, steadfast as I am, to the forest, I will drink poison at once—may I never fall under the power of those who hate me.” Thus, Sītā, with unwavering devotion and love, pleaded with Rāma, her heart set on sharing his path, no matter the hardships ahead.