Sita, her heart resolute and filled with devotion, spoke earnestly to Rama, the scion of the Raghu dynasty. “O Raghava, I am ready to accompany you on this journey. The life of the forest, the path of a hero, appeals to me. With a pure and loving heart, I will follow you, remaining free from sin, for to me, my husband is the highest deity. Even after death, O blessed one, our union will endure—so have I heard from the sacred teachings of revered brahmanas. In this world, the woman whom a man receives from his ancestors, through the sacred waters and according to dharma, remains his even beyond death. “Why, then, do you not wish to take me, a devoted and virtuous wife, from your own household? On what grounds do you leave me behind? You ought to take me with you, O descendant of Kakutstha, for I am devoted, faithful, destitute, and share in your joys and sorrows equally. If you do not wish to take me, so afflicted as I am, then I shall seek death—by poison, by fire, or by water. Such is my resolve.” Thus, Sita pleaded with Rama in many ways, yearning to accompany him, but the mighty-armed Rama did not consent to take her to the lonely forest. Hearing his refusal, Maithili was overcome with anxiety, her eyes brimming with tears that seemed to bathe the earth. Seeing her so troubled, Rama—descendant of Kakutstha—wished to dissuade her and gently consoled Vaidehi, who was now seized by grief and anger, with many soothing words. Consoled by Rama’s words, Sita, daughter of Janaka, spoke again to her husband, her heart set on living in the forest. Greatly distressed, she addressed Rama, whose chest was broad, with affection and a touch of pride. “What did my father, the king of Mithila, see in you, Rama, when he chose you as his son-in-law? Did he see a woman in the guise of a man? Alas, if people, ignorant of the truth, say that Rama lacks great energy, they are mistaken, for you shine like the sun. “What have you done to be so troubled, or what do you fear, that you 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 never look upon any man but you, O faultless one. I would follow you, Raghava, even as another woman might bring disgrace upon her family by forsaking her duty. “Do you wish to give away your pure wife, who has lived with you since youth, to others, like a dancer, O Rama? To the one for whom you speak what is right, and for whose sake you strive, you should always be obedient, O faultless one. Without taking me, you should not set out for the forest. Whether it be asceticism, wilderness, or heaven, let me be with you. “I will not tire on the path, following behind you as I do 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, falling 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—be it 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 that blossom with the seasons. “Nor should you expect to see anything unpleasant because of me; you will not know sorrow, nor will I be a burden to you. With you, even heaven is heaven; without you, it is hell. Knowing this, O Rama, take me with you, for my love for you is supreme. But if you do not take me, unwavering as I am, to the forest, I will drink poison at once—may I not fall into the hands of those who hate me. Even in sorrow, I will not survive; abandoned by you, my lord, death would be better. “I cannot endure this grief even for a moment—how, then, could I bear it 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, pouring forth like fire 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 whose water has receded. Then Rama, seeing her so distraught, embraced her with his arms as if she were senseless with grief, and spoke words of comfort. “O lady, truly, not even heaven pleases me if it brings you sorrow. I have no fear at all, like the self-born creator. Without knowing your every wish, O auspicious one, I do not desire to dwell in the forest, even though I am able to protect you. Since you were created together with me for this journey into the forest, Maithili, my affection for you is as for my own self—I cannot abandon you.