Sītā, lost in deep sorrow and longing, reflected upon her fate in the Ashoka grove. Her heart ached for Rāma, her beloved husband, and she lamented, “Blessed indeed are the gods, the gandharvas, the siddhas, and the great sages who are fortunate enough to see my heroic Rāma, whose eyes are like lotus petals. Perhaps, for that wise and righteous king, there is no purpose in having me as his wife any longer. When friends and loved ones are together, there is joy; when separated, friendship withers. The ungrateful may destroy bonds, but Rāma, noble as he is, would never abandon me.” She wondered, “Is it my lack of virtues, or is it the decline of my fortune, that I, Sītā—worthy of the best—am now separated from the illustrious Rāma? It would be better for me to die than to live, bereft of the great-souled Rāma, whose conduct is blameless, who is heroic and destroys his foes. Or perhaps, having laid down their weapons, those two noble brothers, the best among men, are wandering the forest, living only on roots and fruits. Or, could it be that the valiant Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa have been treacherously slain by the evil-minded Rāvaṇa, king of the rakṣasas?” Torn by these thoughts, Sītā confessed, “In such a time of despair, I wish for death in every way, but death, destined for me, does not come to relieve me from this overwhelming sorrow. Truly blessed are the great souls, the sages honored for their truth, who have mastered themselves and are highly fortunate, for whom there is neither dear nor not dear. For from what is dear comes sorrow, and from what is not dear, even greater may arise; but those great souls are not affected by either. To them I offer my respects.” Resigned, she declared, “Thus abandoned by my beloved Rāma, who knows his own self, I shall give up my life, now under the control of the sinful Rāvaṇa.” Now begins the twenty-seventh chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Sundara Kāṇḍa. Hearing Sītā’s lamentations, the rakṣasī women, inflamed with anger, some of them hurried at once to report to the wicked Rāvaṇa. Others, approaching Sītā, spoke harsh and threatening words, their intent cruel and malicious. “Today, O Sītā, unworthy and resolved on evil, the rakṣasīs will eat your flesh as they please!” Witnessing Sītā thus tormented, the aged rakṣasī Trijaṭā, wise and awakened in mind, intervened. She rebuked the others, “Eat your own flesh, you cruel ones! You shall not devour Sītā, the cherished daughter of Janaka and daughter-in-law of Daśaratha. For today I have seen a dreadful, hair-raising dream, foreboding the destruction of the rakṣasas and the well-being of her husband.” The other rakṣasīs, now fearful, demanded, “Tell us, Trijaṭā, what kind of dream you saw last night.” Trijaṭā then spoke at the right moment, recounting her vision, “I saw a divine palanquin made of ivory, flying through the sky. Rāghava himself, adorned with white garlands and garments, mounted it with Lakṣmaṇa, and it was yoked to a thousand horses. I also saw Sītā, clothed in white, standing upon a white mountain surrounded by the ocean. She was united with Rāma, just as radiance is with the sun. Again, I saw Rāghava as a great elephant with four tusks. Mounted and shining like a mountain, he appeared with Lakṣmaṇa; both of them, glowing with their own brilliance, shone like the sun.” She continued, “Wearing white garlands and garments, they approached Janakī; then, at the summit of that mountain, before the elephant standing in the sky, Janakī was embraced by her husband and rested upon his shoulder. Then, leaping from her husband’s lap, the lotus-eyed Sītā wiped the faces of the moon and sun with her hands. With those two princes, the excellent elephant stood together with wide-eyed Sītā above Laṅkā.” “Kakutstha himself arrived here with his wife Sītā, in a chariot drawn by eight pale bulls. Clad in white garlands and garments, he came together with Lakṣmaṇa. Elsewhere, I saw Rāma, the truly valiant one. With his brother Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, the mighty one ascended the divine Puṣpaka chariot, shining like the sun. Looking toward the north, the best of men set forth; thus, in my dream, I saw Rāma, whose valor is like Viṣṇu’s. With his brother and wife, I saw him—Rāma of great splendor, unconquerable by gods or demons, nor by rakṣasas or any others, just as heaven is unattainable by the wicked.” Trijaṭā’s tone turned somber. “I also saw Rāvaṇa, his head shaven and anointed with oil, wearing red garments, intoxicated, drinking, adorned with garlands of oleander flowers. Today, he fell from the Puṣpaka chariot to the ground. Dragged by a woman, shaven-headed and clad in black, I saw him again in a chariot drawn by donkeys, smeared with red garlands and ointments. Drinking oil, laughing, dancing, his mind confused and senses disturbed, he quickly went southward, mounted on a donkey. Again, I saw Rāvaṇa, lord of the rakṣasas, fallen headfirst to the ground, terrified and bewildered by the donkey.” Trijaṭā concluded, “Entering a foul, unbearable, dreadful darkness—like hell, filled with filth and mud—there Rāvaṇa was quickly submerged. Setting out toward the southern quarter, he entered a muddy pool; a woman in red garments bound the ten-headed Rāvaṇa by the neck.” Thus, Trijaṭā’s dream foretold the destruction of Rāvaṇa and the rakṣasas, and the reunion and triumph of Sītā, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa, shining with divine radiance.