Sita, her voice gentle yet firm, spoke to Rama, “I am well aware, O hero, that the forest is a place of many hardships, and such difficulties are especially hard for those whose minds are untrained. Yet, when I was still a maiden in my father’s house, I heard from a kindly mendicant woman about the life of forest dwellers, as she described it before my mother. Many times before, my lord, I have pleaded with you to let me join you on your journey to the forest, for my heart longs to accompany you. “O Raghava, I am ready for this path. The life of a hero in the forest appeals to me. With a pure heart and out of love, I will remain sinless, following my husband, for to me, the husband is the highest deity. Even after death, O blessed one, our union will endure—so say the sacred teachings of the revered brahmanas. In this world, the woman given in marriage by her father, with water and according to dharma, remains her husband’s even beyond death. “Why, then, do you hesitate to take me, your virtuous and devoted wife, from your own household? You ought to take me, who is faithful, destitute, and unwavering in joy and sorrow, O descendant of Kakutstha—one who shares your happiness and pain. If you do not wish to take me, so afflicted, to the forest, then I will embrace poison, fire, or water, and seek death.” Thus, Sita pleaded with Rama in many ways, longing to accompany him. Yet Rama, mighty-armed, did not consent to take her to the lonely forest. Hearing his refusal, Maithili was seized by anxiety, and tears, warm and heavy, streamed from her eyes, as if bathing the earth. Seeing her so troubled, Rama, the descendant of Kakutstha, sought to console Vaidehi, who was now overcome by anger, speaking many gentle words to soothe her pain. Consoled by Rama’s words, Sita, the daughter of Janaka, once more addressed her husband, her heart set on dwelling in the forest with him. Greatly distressed, yet filled with affection and pride, she said, “What did my father, the king of Mithila, think when he gave me to you, Rama? Did he see a woman in the form of a man? If people, out of ignorance, say there is no great energy in Rama, it is false—for you shine like the sun. “What have you done to deserve such trouble, or what do you fear, that you wish to abandon me, who has no other refuge? Know that I am like Savitri, devoted to Satyavan, the heroic son of Dyumatsena—always acting according to your will. I will never look upon anyone but you, O faultless one; I would rather go with you, Raghava, than bring disgrace upon my family by remaining behind. “You wish to give your pure, lifelong companion to others, as if I were 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, O faultless one. Without taking me, you should not set out for the forest; whether it is asceticism, wilderness, or heaven, let it be with you. “I will not tire on the path, as I follow behind you, just as in times of leisure and rest. The kusha grass, reeds, sharp stalks, and thorny trees along the way will feel to me, with you beside me, as soft as cotton or deerskin. The dust raised by the great wind that falls 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? 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 forest’s flowers and fruits in season. You need not fear seeing anything unpleasant on my account; 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 my love for you is the highest. “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 would have no life; abandoned by you, my lord, death in 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. Wounded by many painful words, like a female elephant pierced by arrows, she released long-held tears, as if fire from kindling. From her lotus-like eyes, water as clear as crystal flowed, born of her anguish. Her face, once white and pure as the moon, with wide eyes, was now dried by tears, like a lotus whose water has been drawn away. Seeing her thus, Rama embraced her with his arms, as if she had become senseless with grief, and spoke words to comfort her.