Sita, her heart unwavering, addressed Rama with gentle firmness: “It is said I must receive the command to dwell in the forest, and so, my beloved, I will go with you. There is no other way. I will fulfill this command and depart at your side—the time has come for the brāhmaṇa’s prophecy to come true. “I know there are many hardships in forest life, O hero, and that such trials are endured by those whose minds are untrained. Yet, as a maiden in my father’s house, I once heard from a gentle mendicant woman, in my mother’s presence, about the life of those who dwell in the forest. Many times before, O lord, I have pleaded with you for the journey to the woods, for my heart longs to be with you wherever you go. “I am prepared, O Rāghava, for this journey. The forest life of a hero appeals to me. With a pure heart and out of love, I will remain free from sin, following my husband, for the husband is the highest deity for a wife. Even after death, O blessed one, our union will endure, for so it is said in the sacred teachings of renowned brāhmaṇas. “In this world, the woman whom a man receives from his fathers, through water and according to his own duty, remains his even after death. So why, from your own household, do you not wish to take me, your virtuous and devoted wife? What reason is there for this, here and now? “You ought to take me, who is devoted, faithful, destitute, and equal in happiness and sorrow—one who shares your joys and pains, O descendant of Kakutstha. If you do not wish to take me, who is thus afflicted, to the forest, then I shall embrace poison, fire, or water, and choose death instead.” Thus Sita pleaded with Rama in many ways, seeking to accompany him. Yet, the mighty-armed one did not grant her wish to go with him to the lonely forest. Spoken to thus, Maithili was overcome with anxiety, her warm tears flowing and seeming to bathe the very earth. Seeing her so troubled, Rama, wishing to dissuade her, tried to console Vaidehi, who was seized by anguish, with many gentle words. Consoled by Rama, Sita, daughter of Janaka, spoke again, her heart set on dwelling in the forest. Greatly distressed, she addressed Raghava, whose chest was broad, with both affection and wounded pride: “What did my father, the king of Mithila, think of you, Rama, when he chose you as a son-in-law? Did he see a woman in the form of a man? “Alas, if people ever say, out of ignorance, that Rama lacks great energy, it is a falsehood, for you shine like the sun. What have you done to be troubled, or what fear is there for you, that you wish to abandon me, who has no other refuge? “Know me to be like Savitri, devoted to Satyavan, always acting according to your will. I will not, in my mind, look upon anyone but you, O faultless one. I would accompany you, Raghava, as another woman might, even if it brought disgrace upon her family. “You yourself wish to give your wife, who is pure and has lived with you since youth, to others, like a dancer, O Rama. To whom you have spoken what is proper, and for whose sake you strive, you should always be obedient and compliant to that person, O faultless one. “Without taking me, you should not set out for the forest; whether it be asceticism, wilderness, or heaven, let it be with you. Nor will I 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-pointed stalks, and thorny trees along the way will feel, with you beside me, as soft as cotton or deerskin. “My beloved, the dust raised by the great wind that falls upon me, I will cherish 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 seasonal flowers and fruits. “Nor should you expect to see anything unpleasant there; 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 Rama, go with me, for I have the highest love for you. “But if you do not take me, unwavering as I am, to the forest, I will drink poison at once—may I not fall under the power of those who hate me. Even afterwards, in sorrow, I will have no life; abandoned by you, my lord, death at that moment would be better. I cannot endure this grief even for a moment—how then, sorrowful, for fourteen years?” Thus tormented by grief, Sita lamented at length. Embracing her husband tightly, she cried out in distress. Struck by many painful words, like a female elephant wounded by arrows, she released tears she had long held back, as if fire sprang from kindling. From her lotus-like eyes, tears as clear as crystal flowed, born of her deep anguish.