रामस्य सीतां प्रति परुषवचनम्

Looking at Maithilī as she stood humbly at his side, Rāma began to speak what lay in his heart. “Here you are, good lady,” he said, “won back by me after I conquered the enemy on the field of battle. What a man's valour demanded, I have done. My wrath has run its course; the outrage has been wiped away, and the insult and the enemy have been destroyed together. Today my manhood has been seen, today my labour has borne fruit, today I have kept my vow and am my own master again. That the fickle-minded rākṣasa carried you off while I was away was a wrong that fate brought about, and I, a mere man, have overcome it. What good is great valour to a small-minded man who does not wipe out by his own might an insult he has suffered? Today Hanumān's glorious deed has borne fruit, his leap across the ocean and his ravaging of Laṅkā. Today the labour of Sugrīva and his army has borne fruit, for he fought bravely and counselled well. And today Vibhīṣaṇa's labour too has borne fruit, who left his worthless brother and came to me of his own accord.” Rāma's first words proclaim the victory, and yet there is not one word of affection for Sītā in them. With words like wrath, outrage and insult he describes the avenging of his own dishonour: the victory is the defence of a warrior's honour, not the fulfilment of love. Sītā's abduction was fate's doing; its remedy was a man's effort. His grateful mention of Hanumān, Sugrīva and Vibhīṣaṇa shows his sense of justice, but even the address “good lady” sounds formal. His words are carefully built: he counts up the contribution of every helper, yet says nothing of Sītā's suffering or her endurance, and that silence prepares the way for the harsh words that follow.

As Rāma spoke, Sītā's eyes opened wide like a doe's, in wonder and in fear, and filled with tears. And as the king looked at her standing near him, the beloved of his heart, his heart was torn in two for fear of what people would say. Here the poet states Rāma's inner conflict plainly: on one side his dearly loved wife, on the other the world's reproach. Rāma was a king whose conduct was the model for his people, and he feared that taking back a wife who had lived in another's house would raise doubts in the world. So, in the midst of the monkeys and rākṣasas, he spoke to Sītā, lovely, with eyes like lotus petals and dark curling hair: “What a man must do to wipe out an outrage, I have done by slaying Rāvaṇa, jealous as I am of my honour. I have won you back as the sage Agastya, made pure by his austerities, won the southern quarter that the living world could not enter.” Agastya had halted the Vindhya mountain's growth and conquered Vātāpi and Ilvala, opening the south to the world of the living; in the same way Rāma had freed Sītā from Rāvaṇa's power. Because Rāma's words were spoken before everyone, not in private, the reader understands that their purpose was public: to lay to rest the doubts of the world. On this reading Rāma's harsh words spring from inner pain.

“Blessings on you, but understand this,” he went on. “This labour of war, which I carried through by my friends' valour, was not undertaken for your sake. I did it to guard my good conduct, to wipe away the reproach that spread on every side and the stain on my famous line. Now that your character has fallen under suspicion, you stand before me as hateful to me as a lamp to a man with diseased eyes. So go, daughter of Janaka; I give you leave today to go wherever you like. Here are the ten directions, good lady; I have no use for you. What man of spirit, born in a noble family, would take back a woman who has lived in another man's house, just because he once loved her? How could I, who claim so great a lineage, take you back, when you have been mauled in Rāvaṇa's lap and he has looked at you with evil eyes? What I won you back for, my good name, I have regained. I have no attachment to you; go where you please. I say this, good lady, having made up my mind. Set your heart on Lakṣmaṇa or on Bharata, whichever you like; or on Śatrughna, or Sugrīva, or the rākṣasa Vibhīṣaṇa — fix your mind, Sītā, wherever you find happiness. For Rāvaṇa, seeing you so divinely beautiful and charming, living in his own house, would not have held back for long.” These are the harshest words in the Rāmāyaṇa. Rāma gives three reasons: to guard his conduct, to end the reproach, and to wipe the stain from his lineage. As lamplight pains a man whose eyes are diseased, so a wife whose character is in doubt brings pain to her husband. His last argument, that Rāvaṇa would not have restrained himself, shows open doubt of her purity, and telling her to turn to Lakṣmaṇa or Bharata is especially cruel, an insult to her faithfulness. The commentators say that Rāma knew Sītā was pure but wished to make her trial manifest before the world, and that this is why he spoke as he did; in the next sarga Sītā will enter the fire, and the Fire-god will bear witness for her. For Sītā these words were more dreadful than all Rāvaṇa's threats: an enemy's words she had endured, but the words of her beloved broke her heart. Yet by telling us earlier that Rāma's heart was torn in two, the poet reminds us that Rāma was not hard within.

Sītā, who deserved to hear only loving words, heard these unloving words from her beloved after so long a time, and, proud woman that she was, she wept bitterly, like a creeper struck down by the trunk of a great elephant. She who should always hear kind words heard unkind ones, and from the very man she loved, after so long a separation; in that contradiction lies the sharpness of her grief. The tender creeper, struck by the mighty trunk, trembles and bends, and so did Sītā. But the poet calls her proud, a word that tells of her self-respect, and in the next sarga she will answer Rāma's words with dignity.