Sita, full of devotion and steadfast loyalty, stood before Rama, the descendant of Kakutstha, and pleaded earnestly. “You ought to take me with you, Rama,” she said, “for I am faithful, destitute, and equal in happiness and sorrow. I share your joys and your pains.” Her voice trembled as she continued, “If you do not wish to take me, though I am thus afflicted, then for the sake of death, I shall embrace poison, fire, or water.” Sita pleaded in many ways, seeking permission to accompany Rama into the forest, but the mighty-armed Rama did not consent to take her to the lonely woods. Hearing Rama’s refusal, Maithili—Sita—was overwhelmed by anxiety. Warm tears streamed from her eyes, as if she were bathing the earth in her sorrow. Seeing her so troubled, Rama, descendant of Kakutstha, wished to dissuade her. He gently consoled Vaidehi, who was seized by anger, with many soft and comforting words. Thus ends the thirtieth chapter in the Ayodhyākāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Consoled by Rama, Sita, the daughter of Janaka, spoke once more to her husband, determined to dwell with him in the forest. Greatly distressed, she addressed Raghava, whose chest was broad, with 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 in the form of a man?” she asked, her words tinged with pain. “Alas, if people say out of ignorance that there is no great energy in Rama, it is false, for you shine like the sun.” She pressed further, “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?” Sita declared her unwavering devotion: “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.” Her anguish deepened. “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.” Sita’s resolve was unwavering. “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? 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.” She assured Rama, “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 Sita’s heart was full of despair. “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?” Tormented by grief, Sita lamented at length, and, embracing her husband tightly, cried out loudly 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 water 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. Seeing her senseless with grief, Rama embraced her with his arms and spoke words of comfort. “O lady, truly, not even heaven pleases me if it comes with 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 dwelling in the forest, Maithili, my affection for you, as for my own self, cannot be abandoned.” Rama explained further, “Indeed, O daughter of Janaka, I would not go to the forest if my father's command, strengthened by truth, did not compel me. This is righteousness, O woman of lovely hips: obedience to father and mother. If I were to disregard their command, I could not bear to live. How can one worship destiny, which is not under one's control, by neglecting those who are—mother, father, and teacher? Where these three exist, O woman of auspicious eyes, it is as pure as the three worlds on earth; nothing else equals it, and thus it is to be revered. Neither truth, nor charity, nor honor, nor sacrifices with abundant gifts, O Sita, are as powerful as service to one's father.” Thus, Rama gently but firmly revealed the depth of his duty and love, while Sita’s unwavering devotion shone brightly, illuminating the sacred bond between them.