Sita, her heart resolute and filled with unwavering devotion, spoke softly to Rama, “I will fulfill that command and depart with you. The time has come—let the brāhmaṇa’s prophecy be realized.” She looked into his eyes, her voice steady but gentle. “I know well, O hero, that the forest is filled with many hardships, and those whose minds are untrained surely struggle to endure them. Yet, as a young maiden in my father’s house, I once heard from a gentle mendicant woman, before my very mother, what forest dwelling is like.” She reminded Rama, “Many times before, O lord, I have pleaded with you for this very journey. My heart longs to go with you. I am prepared, O Rāghava, for the journey; the life of the forest alongside a hero is dear 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 to a wife.” Her voice softened with deep emotion. “Even after death, O blessed one, my union with you will endure, for so the sacred teachings of the renowned brāhmaṇas declare. 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. Why then, from your own household, do you not wish to take me, a virtuous and devoted wife? For what reason, my lord?” Sita’s eyes glistened with tears as she continued, “You ought to take me, who is devoted, faithful, destitute, and equal in happiness and sorrow, O descendant of Kakutstha—one who shares your joys and pains. If you do not wish to take me, who is thus afflicted, to the forest, then I shall embrace poison, fire, or water for the sake of death.” In many ways, Sita pleaded with Rama to let her accompany him. Yet Rama, mighty-armed and steadfast, did not consent to take her to the lonely forest. Overcome by sorrow at his refusal, Sita fell into deep anxiety, her warm tears bathing the earth, her heart trembling with anguish. Seeing her thus troubled and seized by anger, Rama, wishing to comfort and dissuade her, spoke to Vaidehi with many gentle words. Yet Sita, consoled but unyielding, spoke again to her husband, determined to dwell with him in the forest. Greatly distressed, Sita addressed Rama, her words laced with both affection and pride. “What did my father, the king of Mithila, think of you, Rama, when he received you as a son-in-law? Did he see a woman disguised as a man? Alas, if people, out of ignorance, say there is no great energy in Rama, they are mistaken, for you shine like the sun.” Her voice trembled as she pleaded, “What have you done to be so 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, the heroic son of Dyumatsena, always acting according to your will. I will not, in my mind, look upon anyone but you, O faultless one. I would go with you, Raghava, as another would, bringing disgrace upon her family, if you left me behind.” Her pain deepened as she said, “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.” She pleaded with unwavering resolve, “Nor will I feel any weariness on the path, as I follow behind you, just as in times of leisure and rest. The kusha grass, reeds, sharp-pointed stalks, and thorny trees along the way will feel to me, with you, as soft as cotton or deerskin. Beloved, the dust raised by the great wind that will fall upon me, I will regard 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?” Her love shone through every word. “Whatever leaves, roots, or fruits you bring me, whether little or much, I will consider it 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.” Her determination turned to desperation. “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 and crying out in distress. Struck by many painful words, like a female elephant wounded by arrows, she released long-held tears, like fire bursting from kindling. From her lotus-like eyes flowed tears as clear as crystal, born of her anguish. Her face, white and pure as the moon, with wide eyes, was dried by tears, like a lotus with its water drawn away. Thus unfolded the deep and loving plea of Sita, the devoted wife, whose heart would not be parted from Rama, no matter the hardship that awaited them in the forest.