In her heartfelt plea, Sītā declared to Rāma that, once in the forest, she would forget all thoughts of her mother, father, and home, finding joy instead in the flowers and fruits of each season. She assured him that there would be nothing unpleasant for her there; because of him, she would know no sorrow, nor would she ever become a burden to him. Sītā confessed that, for her, heaven itself would only be heaven with Rāma beside her—without him, even paradise would be like hell. With this understanding, she implored him to take her along, for her love for him was supreme. But if Rāma refused to bring her, steadfast as she was, Sītā vowed she would drink poison rather than fall into the hands of those who despised her. She could not imagine life without him; abandoned by her lord, death would be preferable to such sorrow. She confessed that she could not endure even a moment of grief—how, then, could she survive fourteen years apart from him? Tormented by anguish, Sītā lamented at length, embracing her husband tightly and crying out in distress. Her words, sharp with pain, wounded Rāma like arrows strike a female elephant, and at last, she released the tears she had been holding back, like fire bursting from kindling. Crystal-clear tears flowed from her lotus-like eyes, born of her deep sorrow. Her face, once pure and radiant as the moon, with wide, beautiful eyes, was now dried by her tears, like a lotus wilting without water. Seeing her thus, Rāma embraced Sītā with his arms, as if she were senseless with grief, and spoke gentle words to comfort her. “O lady,” he said, “even heaven does not please me if it brings sorrow. I have no fear at all, like the self-born creator. Without knowing your every wish, I do not desire to dwell in the forest, even though I am able to protect you. You were created with me for life in the forest, Maithilī, and my affection for you—like my love for my own self—cannot be abandoned.” He continued, “O daughter of Janaka, I would not go to the forest if not compelled by my father’s command, which is strengthened by truth. 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 neglect those who are within one’s reach—mother, father, and teacher—to pursue destiny, which is beyond control? Where these three are honored, it is as pure as the three worlds upon earth. Nothing equals this, and thus it is to be revered. Neither truth, nor charity, nor honor, nor great sacrifices, O Sītā, are as powerful as service to one’s father. Heaven, wealth, grain, knowledge, children, and happiness—nothing is unattainable through devoted service to one’s teacher. Great souls devoted to mother and father attain the worlds of the gods, Gandharvas, cows, and even Brahma’s realm. As my father, established in truth and righteousness, instructs me, so I wish to act; for that is the eternal law.” Then Rāma assured Sītā, “My mind is firmly resolved, O Sītā, to lead you to the Daṇḍaka forest; so be certain to follow me and dwell there. You have been destined, O flawless-limbed one with enchanting eyes, for the forest; follow me, O gentle one, and be my companion in righteousness. In every way, O Sītā, your resolve is fitting for me and your own noble lineage; your decision is most admirable.” He instructed her, “Begin, O woman of auspicious hips, the tasks suited for forest life; now, O Sītā, even heaven does not please me without you. Give your jewels to the Brahmins and food to the mendicants; grant to those who ask, and hurry—do not delay. All the precious ornaments, fine garments, and delightful playthings—beds, vehicles, and all my other possessions—give them to our servants, after first giving to the Brahmins.” Hearing her husband’s words and understanding his departure was near, Sītā, filled with joy and eagerness, promptly began to give away gifts. Delighted and with a heart fulfilled, the illustrious lady gave wealth and jewels, sharing generously with Brahmins and mendicants, as was the custom of the noble and righteous. Thus concludes the thirty-first chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Meanwhile, Lakṣmaṇa, having heard their conversation, arrived with his face overcome by tears, unable to endure his sorrow. Pressing his brother’s feet, the delight of the Raghu lineage spoke to both Sītā and Rāghava, the great vow-holder. “If you have resolved to go to the forest filled with deer and elephants, I will go before you, carrying my bow. With me, you will wander through delightful forests, resounding with flocks of birds and herds of wild animals. I do not wish to ascend to the realm of the gods, nor do I desire immortality, nor even the sovereignty of the worlds—without you, none of this means anything to me.” Though Rāma tried to restrain him with many gentle words, Saumitri, resolved to dwell in the forest, spoke again: “Since you already permitted me before, why now do you restrain me? For what reason is this prohibition made against me, who wishes only to serve you? I wish to know, O blameless one, for I am uncertain.” Thus, with hearts full of devotion and love, Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa pledged themselves to Rāma’s side, ready to follow him into the forest, upholding the highest ideals of dharma and family.