Sītā, overwhelmed by sorrow, lamented the fate that had befallen her beloved Rāma. She remembered those who had once assured her that she would never be widowed, that sons would always grace her life—wise ones whose words now seemed empty, for Rāma lay slain. Those who had called her the queen of a sacrificer, the wife of one who performed great rites, were proven false. Those who knew her as the honored wife of a heroic king, those who declared her blessed in auspicious ceremonies—all their assurances had come to nothing with Rāma’s death. She reflected on the marks that noble women bear, lotuses at their feet, signs of sovereignty shared with their royal husbands. Yet, the marks that bring misfortune and widowhood, she did not see in herself, though her fortune seemed destroyed. The auspicious marks spoken of as “true lotuses” were now, for her, mere empty words. Sītā described her own features: fine, even, dark hair; unjoined eyebrows; rounded, smooth shins; even, unbroken teeth. Her eyes were shaped like conch shells, her hands and feet well-formed, her ankles and thighs symmetrical and well-marked; her nails smooth and fingers straight. Her breasts were full and rounded, her navel deep and prominent, her sides and chest well-shaped. Her complexion shone like a jewel, her body hair was soft. By these twelve marks, she had been declared auspicious. Her hands and feet were unblemished, shaped like whole barley grains, her smile gentle—seers recognized her as possessing maidenly marks. Brāhmaṇas skilled in destiny had foretold she would be anointed in sovereignty with her husband, but all that was rendered false. She recalled how, after clearing the forest of Janasthāna and learning of the events, after crossing the unshakable ocean, her two brothers-in-law had been slain as if in a cow’s hoofprint. The Rāghavas had obtained the weapons of Varuṇa, Agni, Indra, Vāyu, and even the Brahmaśiras, yet, by one unseen in battle, through illusion, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—her protectors, equal to Indra—had been slain, leaving her without support. No enemy who came within Rāghava’s sight in battle ever returned alive, even if he was swift as thought. Yet, there is no burden too great for Time; Death is unconquerable, and Rāma lies fallen in battle with his brother. Sītā confessed that her grief was not so much for Rāma, nor for Lakṣmaṇa the great charioteer, nor for herself or her mother, but most deeply for her ascetic mother-in-law. That noble lady constantly thought, having completed her vows and awaiting their return: “When will I see Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa together with Rāma?” As Sītā lamented, the demoness Trijaṭā approached her, saying, “Do not despair, lady; your husband is alive.” Trijaṭā spoke gently, offering reasons why Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa were indeed alive. She explained that the faces of warriors in battle do not become distorted by anger or overwhelmed with joy when their leader is slain. This aerial chariot, Vaidehi—the Puṣpaka—would not bear you in its divine form if these two had truly lost their lives. An army whose chief heroes are slain, whose spirit is gone and whose effort lost, wanders in battle like a boat with a broken rudder. Yet, this army stood undisturbed and untroubled, guarding the sons of Kakutstha. Trijaṭā urged Sītā to be confident, to rely on these pleasant signs, and assured her that the sons of Kakutstha were unharmed. She emphasized her sincerity, saying she had never spoken a lie, nor would she, for Sītā’s virtuous and gentle nature had entered her heart. Even the gods with Indra and the demons could not defeat Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa in battle; having seen such a sight, she spoke these words out of affection. Trijaṭā pointed out the most wondrous thing: though struck down and unconscious, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa did not lose their radiance. Generally, men who have lost their strength and life show extreme distortion in their faces, but this was not so with the two brothers. She advised Sītā to abandon sorrow, grief, and delusion, for the sake of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, it was not possible to live today. Hearing Trijaṭā’s words, Sītā, equal to a divine maiden, with joined palms, replied, “So be it.” Then, Trijaṭā turned back the Puṣpaka chariot, swift as thought, and led the dejected Sītā into Laṅkā. Together, they descended from Puṣpaka and were led by the demonesses into the Ashoka grove. Entering that grove, full of many trees, the pleasure ground of the king of demons, Sītā, seeing and thinking of the two princes, was overcome by deep despair. Meanwhile, in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Yuddha Kanda, the forty-ninth chapter begins. Bound by the dreadful net of arrows, the sons of Daśaratha lay covered in blood, breathing heavily like wounded elephants. All those foremost of the monkeys, of great strength and with Sugrīva among them, surrounded the noble brothers, standing there overwhelmed by grief. At that moment, Rāma, steadfast and mighty, regained consciousness—though still bound by arrows—due to his firmness and strength of spirit.