As Rāma prepared for his exile, he gently tried to dissuade Sītā from accompanying him into the forest, painting a vivid picture of its hardships. “Sītā,” he said, “in those wild and deserted places, fearless and intoxicated animals roam and play. When you see them, the forest fills you with sorrow. The rivers there are swollen and muddy, teeming with crocodiles, and are nearly impossible to cross—even mighty elephants struggle. The forest paths are tangled with thorny vines, echoing with the cries of peacocks, and water is scarce. Everywhere, hardship awaits. “To sleep, one must gather fallen leaves for a bed, often broken and scattered on the ground, and after the toil of the day, even rest at night brings little comfort. Day and night, one must be content with little, practicing self-restraint, living only on fruits that have dropped from the trees. Fasting becomes a way of life, O Maithili, and you must bear matted hair and wear garments made of bark. “Still, the duties of life continue—rites for the gods and ancestors must be performed properly, and guests who arrive must always be honored. Three times a day, one must bathe at the correct hour, maintaining discipline. Offerings are made with flowers gathered by one’s own hands and offered according to the Vedic rites. Contentment must be found with whatever little is available, whatever food the forest yields. “But the forest also brings fierce winds, darkness, and constant hunger. There are dangers at every turn. Serpents of many forms roam boldly along the paths, and snakes dwell in the winding rivers, blocking the way. Moths, scorpions, insects, and biting flies torment the weary and the weak. The trees are thorny, and the ground is covered with kuśa and kāśa grasses, their tangled branches making the way even harder. “Those who dwell in the wilderness face many bodily hardships and countless fears. One must abandon anger and greed, set the mind on austerity, and not fear even the most fearful things. For all these reasons, Sītā, it is not fitting that you should go to the forest. There is no safety for you there. As I see it, the forest is full of many dangers.” Yet, when Rāma, the great-souled one, tried to dissuade her, Sītā did not heed his words. Deeply distressed, she spoke to him, her face streaming with tears. Sītā replied slowly, “The faults you have spoken of, Rāma, regarding life in the forest—I see them as virtues, out of my love for you. The deer, lions, elephants, tigers, sharabhas, camels, wild boars, and all the other creatures that roam the forest—when they see you, O Rāghava, they will flee, for none can stand before you. “I must go with you, as commanded by our elders. If I am separated from you, Rāma, I could not remain alive. Even Indra, the lord of the gods, could not harm me while I am by your side. A woman bereft of her husband cannot survive—you yourself have shown me the truth of this. “Long ago, in my father’s house, I heard from learned brāhmaṇas that I was destined to dwell in the forest. Remembering their words, I have always been eager for such a life. It is said I must receive the command for forest dwelling, and so, with you, my husband, I will go—there is no other way. “The time has come for that prophecy to be fulfilled, and I will depart with you. I know well that many hardships are found in the forest, and they are surely difficult for those whose minds are untrained. As a maiden in my father’s house, I heard of forest life from a gentle mendicant woman, in my mother’s presence. “O lord, I have pleaded with you many times before for this journey, for I long to go with you. I am ready, Rāghava; the forest life of a hero appeals to me. With a pure heart and out of love, I will remain free from sin, following my husband, for the husband is the highest deity to a wife. “Even after death, O blessed one, my union with you will endure, for so it is taught by the revered brāhmaṇas. In this world, the woman whom a man receives from his fathers, through water and according to his own dharma, remains his even after death. “Why then, from your own household, do you not wish to take me, your virtuous and devoted wife? You ought to take me, who is faithful, destitute, and shares equally in your happiness and sorrow, O descendant of Kakutstha—one who is ever devoted to you, in both joy and pain.” Thus, Sītā spoke her heart, unmoved by Rāma’s warnings, determined to share his path, no matter how difficult the forest might be.