Having received the sage Sutīkṣṇa’s blessing, Rāma, the noble descendant of Raghu, prepared to depart. As he readied himself, Sītā, his devoted wife, spoke to him with heartfelt affection. Her words, gentle yet full of wisdom, touched upon the subtle dangers that can arise when one is not vigilant. She reminded Rāma that unrighteousness often comes by imperceptible means, and that only by withdrawing from desire and its companions can one avoid the misfortunes they bring. She spoke of three kinds of misfortune born of desire, declaring that falsehood was the greatest among them, and that the other two—though heavy—were made worse by deceit. Yet, she reassured Rāma that he was untouched by such faults: he had never approached another’s wife, nor spoken falsely, nor harbored enmity or cruelty. Such thoughts, she said, had never arisen in him, nor would they ever. Rāma, the king among men, had never desired another woman, for such a thing destroys righteousness. Even in the privacy of his mind, Sītā knew, there was no room for such thoughts; his devotion was always for her alone. She praised his virtues: his truthfulness, his obedience to his father, and his unwavering commitment to righteousness. All these qualities, she said, could only be borne by one who had conquered his senses, and she knew well the depth of Rāma’s self-control. Turning to the purpose of his journey, Sītā recalled his promise to protect the sages dwelling in the Dandaka forest and to defeat the demons who threatened them. For this reason, his departure to the forest, armed with bow and arrows and accompanied by his brother, was known to all. Yet, as she watched him leave, Sītā’s heart was troubled with anxiety. She pondered over what would be truly beneficial for him, for she found no joy in his journey to the Dandaka forest. She confided her concern: Rāma, armed and accompanied by his brother, would encounter many forest-dwellers, and she hoped he would not be tempted to use his arrows against them. For a Kṣatriya, she said, the bow is like fuel to a fire; when it is close at hand, power and energy surge forth. To illustrate her point, Sītā recounted a tale from the past. Once, there lived a virtuous, truthful, and pure ascetic who delighted in the company of deer and birds in his holy forest. Indra, lord of Śacī, wishing to disrupt the sage’s austerity, came to his hermitage disguised as a warrior and entrusted him with a sword. The ascetic, committed to safeguarding the weapon, began to carry it with him everywhere, even when gathering roots and fruits. Gradually, always bearing the sword, he became fierce, abandoning his former resolve for austerity. In time, he succumbed to violence and unrighteousness, and, corrupted by his association with the weapon, he fell to ruin. Sītā explained that just as fire has its cause, so too does the use of weapons. Out of deep affection and respect, she urged Rāma never to act thus while bearing his bow. She cautioned him that to slay the Rākṣasas of Daṇḍaka without enmity or fault would not be approved by the world. For a Kṣatriya in the forest, she said, the true duty is to protect the afflicted, not to wield weapons indiscriminately. She questioned the mixing of roles: where was the place for weapons in the forest, the Kṣatriya’s duty amid asceticism? She urged Rāma to honor the law of the land, warning that constant practice with weapons gives rise to a mean and impure mind. When he returned to Ayodhyā, he could again fulfill his Kṣatriya duties, but for now, she hoped for a life of harmony and righteousness. Sītā reflected that endless affection would exist between herself and her parents-in-law if Rāma, having renounced the kingdom, were devoted to the life of a sage. She reminded him that from righteousness springs wealth and happiness, and that all is founded on righteousness. Only through discipline and skill can righteousness be attained; happiness does not come from pleasure alone. She urged Rāma to always keep his mind pure and to practice righteousness in the forest of austerities, for he already knew the truth of all the worlds. Humbly, she admitted that her words sprang from a woman’s natural restlessness, and acknowledged that none were truly fit to instruct Rāma in righteousness. She asked him to consider with his brother what pleased him, and to act without delay. At this point, the tenth chapter begins. Hearing Sītā’s devoted and thoughtful speech, Rāma, steadfast in righteousness, replied to her. He praised her words as beneficial and full of affection, worthy of one born in a noble family and versed in dharma, the daughter of Janaka. He acknowledged her wisdom, especially her reminder that the Kṣatriya bears the bow so that none may cry out in distress. Rāma then explained that the sages of the Daṇḍaka forest, firm in their vows, had themselves come to him seeking refuge, beseeching him, their protector, to help them. Living on roots and fruits, they found no happiness because of the cruel Rākṣasas who preyed upon them. These fierce beings, subsisting on human flesh, devoured the ascetics of Daṇḍaka. The foremost of the twice-born, the sages, had said to Rāma, “Let us rely upon you.” Hearing their plea, Rāma accepted the duty to protect them. Thus, the conversation between Sītā and Rāma unfolded, each speaking from a place of deep love, wisdom, and commitment to righteousness, as they prepared to journey together through the dangers and duties of the Dandaka forest.