रामस्य प्रतिज्ञानिर्वाहनिश्चयः

Hearing these words that Vaidehī had spoken out of devotion to her husband, Rāma, standing firm in dharma, answered Jānakī. The poet's phrase ‘standing firm in dharma’ tells us that his reply came not from irritation but from settled conviction. He did not begin by rejecting what she had said, but by praising it: ‘Lady, you have spoken words that are for my good, affectionate and fitting. Knower of dharma, daughter of Janaka, in invoking your family you have said what becomes you.’ He took his wife's counsel as meant for his good, not as presumption, and by mentioning her family he recalled the dharma for which Janaka's line was known: she had spoken as her lineage deserved. Then he went on: ‘But what am I to say, when it is you yourself who have said it — that warriors bear the bow so that no cry of the afflicted may be heard? Those sages of severe vows in the Daṇḍaka forest are afflicted, Sītā. They came to me of their own accord and took refuge with me as one who gives refuge. Living in the forest season after season, eating roots and fruits, they have no peace, terrified as they are of the rākṣasas of cruel deeds.’ So he established his own case out of Sītā's own words. His reasoning is clear: the whole purpose of bearing the bow is to protect the afflicted, and that occasion had now arrived. In these opening verses he does not start an argument; he takes her own statement as authority and on it builds his answer.

‘They are being devoured by dreadful rākṣasas who live on human flesh, and as they were being devoured, those sages of the Daṇḍaka forest, the best of the twice-born, said to me, “Come to our aid.”’ Then Rāma himself told her what he had done: ‘When I heard those words from their lips and had listened carefully to what they said, I answered: “Be gracious to me. It is a shame beyond measure for me that brāhmaṇas such as you, to whom others ought to come, should come to me. What am I to do?” — so I spoke before the twice-born. Then they all came together and said: “In the Daṇḍaka forest, Rāma, we are cruelly tormented by many rākṣasas who take whatever form they please; you must protect us there.”’ Through Rāma's mouth the poet lets us hear the sages' own words, so that their misery stands before Sītā as though she saw it herself. Note that Rāma does not describe his own prowess but only his shame: that brāhmaṇas worthy of being waited on had had to come to him was his great embarrassment. And in asking ‘What am I to do?’ he had not rushed into a vow; it was the sages who had laid their suffering before him. In this way Sītā's fear is answered of itself: Rāma had not first formed an intention to kill; it arose only from the plea of the afflicted.

The sages had gone on: ‘When the hour of oblation comes and on the holy days, sinless one, these flesh-eating rākṣasas, so hard to withstand, attack us. For us ascetics, attacked by rākṣasas and looking for some recourse, you are the highest recourse. We could certainly kill the night-rangers by the power of our austerity, but we do not wish to break the austerity we have gathered over so long; for austerity has many obstacles and is always hard to practise, Rāghava. For that very reason, even while the rākṣasas devour us, we do not pronounce a curse on them. So protect us, you and your brother, tormented as we are by the demons of the Daṇḍaka forest; for in this forest you are our protector.’ Then Rāma turned to Sītā: ‘And hearing those words, daughter of Janaka, I promised to protect the sages of the Daṇḍaka forest completely. Having promised it, I cannot, while I live, go back on my word to the sages.’ What is special in the sages' words is that they themselves had the power to curse, yet refrained in order to preserve their austerity; so their plea came not from weakness but from their very devotion to austerity. That makes Rāma's duty doubly firm: what they could have done themselves they had given up for the sake of austerity, and so the task fell to the warrior alone. Hearing their plea and making his promise are bound together in one.

‘Truth has always been dear to me,’ Rāma said, and then spoke words of utmost firmness: ‘I would give up my life, Sītā, or give up you and Lakṣmaṇa with you, but never a promise once made, least of all one made to brāhmaṇas. So I must protect the sages without fail. Even unasked, Vaidehī, it was my duty; how much more now that I have given my word?’ Then he softened his tone: ‘You have said this to me out of love and goodwill, and I am well pleased, Sītā, for no one gives counsel to someone who is not dear to him. What you have said is fitting and worthy of your family, lovely one. You share my dharma with me, and you are dearer to me than my own life.’ His saying that no one counsels one who is not dear is like a proverb: that she had counselled him was itself proof of her love, and so he consoled her. Having said this, the great-souled Rāma, bow in hand, went with his beloved Sītā, the daughter of the king of Mithilā, and with Lakṣmaṇa to the delightful groves of austerity. With those words the poet suggests that the dispute was over and that husband and wife, of one mind again, went on their way together.