His Word for Sītā

At dawn Rāma went to the place of sacrifice and called all the great sages: Vasiṣṭha, Vāmadeva and Jābāli, Kaśyapa, Viśvāmitra, Durvāsa, Pulastya, Mārkaṇḍeya, Bharadvāja, Nārada, Gautama, Agastya and many more. Monkeys who had fought for Rāma at Laṅkā came, and rākṣasas of Laṅkā who were now his friends, and people of every class by the thousand, to see Sītā take her oath, and the great crowd stood as still as a mountain of stone. Vālmīki came, and Sītā walked behind him with her face bowed and her hands folded, her throat thick with tears, keeping Rāma in her heart, like the Veda walking behind Brahmā. A great sound went up from the crowd, some crying, Well done, Rāma! and some, Well done, Sītā!

Vālmīki walked into the middle of the assembly with Sītā and spoke to Rāma. This Sītā, son of Daśaratha, keeps her vows and walks in dharma. You abandoned her near my hermitage because of what people said. Since you fear the people's blame, she will give you proof. Give her leave. And these twin brothers are Sītā's sons, your own sons; I tell you the truth. I do not remember ever having spoken a lie, Rāma. These boys are your sons. Then he staked on Sītā the whole fruit of his austerity: For many thousands of years I have practised austerity; may I not have its fruit if this woman is impure. By my mind and my senses I knew that Sītā was pure, and so I took her in when I found her by the river. This woman, pure in conduct, without sin, who looks upon her husband as her god, will give proof to you, who fear the people's blame.

Rāma folded his hands before the assembly and answered him. It is as you say, great sage. I trust your faultless words. Long ago, before the gods, Sītā gave proof and swore an oath, and I took her home. But the people's blame was strong, and I sent her away, though I knew she was without stain. She must forgive me. And I know that Kuśa and Lava are my sons, born as twins.

Then the gods came, with Brahmā at their head, and a pure and fragrant breeze blew over the assembly. Sītā, in a saffron robe, with folded hands and downcast eyes, spoke. If I have never thought of anyone but Rāma, she said, let the goddess Earth open and take me in. And the earth opened, and a heavenly throne rose up, and the goddess Earth took Sītā in her arms and seated her on it, and Sītā went down into the earth while flowers fell from the sky.

The sages and the monkeys cried out that she was pure. Rāma leaned on a staff and wept, and in his grief and anger he demanded that the Earth give her back. Then Brahmā spoke to him. Sītā was faithful to you alone, he said. By the power of her austerity and of her refuge in you she has gone to the world beneath the earth, and you will be with her again in heaven. And Rāma asked Vālmīki to begin, at dawn the next day, the last part of the poem, the part that was still to come.