Mārīca, wise and experienced, addressed the mighty Rāvaṇa with words of caution. He spoke of Rāma, born of a pure and noble lineage, who possessed the pride of strength and steadfastness like a great elephant with powerful tusks. “O Rāvaṇa,” he said, “it is not fitting to confront Rāghava, the elephant among men, in battle. He is a lion among men, supremely skilled in combat, a destroyer of clever rākṣasas. In the midst of war, he stands unshaken, bristling with arrows and sharp swords as his fangs. You cannot rouse him while he sleeps, for he is ever ready and terrible. “In the mire of his arm’s strength, amidst the flood of great battle, where waves of arrows crash and bows are snatched away, it is not right, O king of rākṣasas, to leap into Rāma’s dreadful mouth, as one would into the gaping jaws of the underworld. Be gracious, lord of Laṅkā. Be pleased, return to your city and delight always with your own wives. Let Rāma, with his wife, enjoy the forests in peace.” Thus admonished by Mārīca, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa turned back and entered his splendid house in Laṅkā. Meanwhile, events unfolded swiftly elsewhere. Śūrpaṇakhā, the rākṣasī, witnessed a scene of unimaginable destruction: fourteen thousand fierce and mighty rākṣasas had fallen, all slain by Rāma alone. She saw Dūṣaṇa, Khara, and Triśiras, powerful leaders among the rākṣasas, lying dead on the battlefield. Overcome by grief and rage, she let out a great, thunderous roar, echoing like a storm cloud. Seeing Rāma’s astonishing feat—something impossible for others—Śūrpaṇakhā was deeply agitated. She made her way to Laṅkā, the city ruled by her brother Rāvaṇa. There, she beheld Rāvaṇa himself, radiant and resplendent, seated at the forefront of his magnificent palace among his ministers, shining like Indra among the Maruts. He sat upon a supreme golden throne, glowing like the sun, atop a golden platform, blazing like fire. Rāvaṇa was unconquerable in dreadful battle by gods, gandharvas, spirits, and great sages. He appeared like Death itself, with a gaping mouth, his body scarred by the thunderbolt and lightning from his battles with gods and demons, his chest marked by the tusks of Airāvata, Indra’s elephant. With twenty arms and ten heads, adorned in splendid attire, broad-chested, heroic, he bore all the marks of royalty. His ornaments gleamed like cat’s-eye gems and heated gold; his arms were strong, his teeth white, his mouth wide, and his form as imposing as a mountain. In great battles, he had been struck hundreds of times by Viṣṇu’s discus and other divine weapons, yet his limbs remained unbroken. Such was his might that he could agitate even the unshakable oceans. He could hurl mountain peaks, crush the gods, destroy righteousness, and violate the wives of others. He wielded all celestial weapons, always disrupted sacrifices, and had conquered Vāsuki, entering the city of Bhogavatī. He had defeated Takṣaka and seized his beloved wife; conquering Naravāhana, he 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, holding them back with his arms like mountain peaks, after having performed austerities for ten thousand years in the great forest. Long ago, in the time of Svayambhu, Rāvaṇa had 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 he was also the taker of soma at offerings, the disturber of sacrifices, wicked, a slayer of Brahmins, and cruel in his deeds. Harsh and 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 the rākṣasas, the great and noble scion of the Paulastya line. Trembling with fear, the rākṣasī approached Rāvaṇa, the destroyer of enemies, surrounded by his counselors. To him, whose eyes blazed wide and bright, Śūrpaṇakhā, though disfigured, spoke without fear. Consumed by terror, greed, and delusion, she uttered the most dreadful words. Distressed, she spoke harshly to Rāvaṇa, the terror of the worlds, in the midst of his ministers. “Absorbed in pleasures, unrestrained and self-willed, you do not see 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? You, rākṣasa, are childish in nature and lacking in wisdom; you do not know what must be known—how then will you be a king?” Thus did Śūrpaṇakhā address her mighty brother, warning him of the peril that now threatened their race.