Mārīca, wise and seasoned, turned to Rāvaṇa and asked, “By whose act have you been set upon this evil path? Who struck you on the head while you were sleeping peacefully, O king?” He spoke of Rāma, the noble prince born of a pure and illustrious line, whose pride was matched only by his steadfastness, as unyielding as a mighty elephant with great tusks. Mārīca cautioned Rāvaṇa, saying it was not fitting to confront Rāma—Rāghava, the elephant among men—in battle. He described Rāma as a lion among men, skilled in warfare, a destroyer of clever rākṣasas, standing in the midst of war. One could not awaken him while he slept, for his arrows and sharp swords were like fangs, ready to strike. Mārīca warned the king: in the mire of Rāma’s strength, in the flood of battle with waves of arrows and the theft of bows, it was not right for the king of rākṣasas to leap into Rāma’s dreadful mouth, as one would leap into the underworld. He pleaded, “Be gracious, lord of Laṅkā, king of rākṣasas; be pleased, return to Laṅkā. Always delight with your own wives; let Rāma with his wife enjoy the forests.” Thus addressed by Mārīca, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa turned back and entered his splendid palace in Laṅkā. Now, listen to the next chapter. At this time, Śūrpaṇakhā witnessed a terrible sight. Fourteen thousand fierce and mighty rākṣasas had been slain by Rāma alone. She saw Dūṣaṇa, Khara, and Triśiras killed in battle, and again let out a great roar, like a thundercloud echoing across the sky. Seeing Rāma’s deed—so difficult for others to accomplish—she became deeply agitated and hurried to Laṅkā, the realm ruled by her brother Rāvaṇa. There, she saw Rāvaṇa radiant in his brilliance, seated before his ministers at the forefront of his palace, like Indra among the Maruts. He sat on a supreme golden throne, shining like the sun, upon a platform of gold, resplendent like blazing fire. Unconquerable in dreadful battle by gods, Gandharvas, spirits, and great sages, he looked like Death itself, his mouth agape. His chest bore the scars of thunderbolt and lightning from battles with gods and demons, marked by the tusks of Airāvata. With twenty arms and ten heads, adorned in splendid attire, broad-chested, heroic, and marked with royal signs, he was a formidable sight. His ornaments shone like cat’s-eye gems and heated gold; his strong arms, white teeth, and great mouth gave him the form of a mountain. He had been struck hundreds of times in great battles by Viṣṇu’s discus and other divine weapons, yet all his limbs remained unbroken. He could swiftly agitate even the unshakable oceans. Rāvaṇa could hurl mountain peaks, crush the gods, destroy righteousness, and violate the wives of others. He wielded all celestial weapons and was always the disturber of sacrifices, having conquered Vāsuki and entered the city of Bhogavatī. He defeated Takṣaka and seized his beloved wife, and, conquering Naravāhana, reached Mount Kailāsa. He took the wondrous, wish-fulfilling Puṣpaka chariot, and the divine forests of Caitraratha, Nalinī, and Nandana. In his fury, he destroyed the gardens of the gods and, with his might, restrained the glorious Sun and Moon. With arms like mountain peaks, he held them back, having performed austerities for ten thousand years in the great forest. Long ago, in the time of Svayambhu, that steadfast one severed the heads of gods, demons, gandharvas, piśācas, birds, and serpents. In battle, he feared no one but a human. Praised with mantras by the twice-born at sacred rites, he was considered auspicious. Yet, with great might, he took the soma at offerings, disrupted sacrifices, was wicked, a slayer of Brahmins, and cruel in his deeds. Harsh, pitiless, delighting in the harm of beings, Rāvaṇa brought terror to all creatures and to all the worlds. Śūrpaṇakhā saw her cruel and mighty brother, adorned with divine garments and ornaments, shining with celestial garlands. Seated upon his throne, like Death itself arisen at the appointed time, was the illustrious king of rākṣasas, the great and noble scion of the Paulastya line. Approaching him, the rākṣasī trembled with fear, yet spoke to Rāvaṇa, the destroyer of enemies, who was surrounded by his counselors. To him, whose eyes blazed wide and bright, Śūrpaṇakhā—disfigured but fearless—revealed her terror, greed, and delusion, and spoke these most dreadful words. Now, listen to the next sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Śūrpaṇakhā, distressed, spoke harsh words in anger to Rāvaṇa, the terror of the worlds, in the midst of his ministers. “Absorbed in pleasures, unrestrained and self-willed, you do not perceive the dreadful danger that has arisen. A king attached to base enjoyments, ruled by desire and greed, is not respected by his people, just as the fire of a cremation ground is disregarded. A king who does not carry out his duties at the proper time perishes, along with his kingdom and those very duties. People avoid a king who is careless in his spies, hard to approach, and not self-controlled, just as elephants avoid a muddy riverbank. Kings who do not protect their domains and lack self-mastery do not shine with prosperity, just as mountains are not visible in the sea. How will you, lacking proper intelligence and unstable, be a king when opposed by gods, gandharvas, and demons who are wise and self-possessed?” Thus, Śūrpaṇakhā confronted Rāvaṇa, laying bare her fears and warning him of the peril that now threatened Laṅkā, as the shadow of Rāma’s wrath loomed ever closer.