When Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, heard of the destruction that had befallen his kin, he turned to the demoness Śūrpaṇakhā and questioned her with suspicion and curiosity. “What weapon does Rāma possess,” he demanded, “by which Khara, Triśiras, and Dūṣaṇa were all slain in battle? Tell me the truth, lovely-limbed one—who disfigured you in this way?” Stirred by anger at the memory of her humiliation, Śūrpaṇakhā began to describe Rāma as he truly was. She spoke of his long arms and wide eyes, of his ascetic garb—bark cloth and black antelope skin. She told how Rāma, the son of Daśaratha, was as handsome as Kāmadeva himself, drawing a mighty bow, decked with golden armlets, his form radiant and commanding. She described how he unleashed blazing arrows, deadly as venomous serpents, never ceasing in his onslaught. Though she never saw him actually draw his bow in battle, she witnessed the devastation he wrought: the armies of his enemies falling beneath a relentless rain of arrows. Like Indra destroying crops with a hailstorm, Rāma single-handedly struck down fourteen thousand fierce rākṣasas, including Khara and Dūṣaṇa, with his sharp arrows, all in little more than half a muhūrta. Rāma, she said, granted safety to the sages, and the Daṇḍaka forest now lay secure under his protection. “I alone barely escaped,” she confessed, “humiliated by that great-souled one, Rāma, who, knowing himself, refrained from killing a woman.” She spoke then of Rāma’s brother, Lakṣmaṇa—mighty in strength, equal to Rāma in valor and virtue, ever loyal and devoted. Lakṣmaṇa was impetuous, unconquerable, courageous, wise, and strong, the right arm of Rāma, his very life outside his body. Next, she described Sītā, Rāma’s wife, with her broad eyes and a face like the full moon, ever devoted to her husband and delighting in his welfare. Sītā’s beauty was remarkable—lovely-haired, fine-nosed, shapely, and renowned. In the forest she shone like a goddess, like another Śrī herself, her radiance like burnished gold, her form noble, her nails red and prominent, her waist slender. “I have never seen a woman so lovely on earth,” Śūrpaṇakhā declared, “not among goddesses, Gandharvīs, Yakṣīs, or Kinnarīs. He whose wife is Sītā, whom she embraces with joy, would surpass even Indra in happiness among all beings. She is virtuous and unmatched in beauty—she would be a fitting wife for you, and you the best husband for her.” With cunning, she continued, “I am resolved to bring her—broad-hipped, full-breasted, and lovely-faced—for you as your wife. I was disfigured by the cruel Lakṣmaṇa, who has mighty arms; but now, seeing Vaidehī, whose face is like the full moon, you will be subject to the arrows of Kāma if you desire her. Quickly lift your right foot here for victory. If my words please you, O lord of the rākṣasas, let my counsel be carried out without hesitation, O Rāvaṇa. Understand their weakness, take action, and let Sītā, flawless in form, become your wife.” She pressed her point: “Having heard that the night-dwellers at Janasthāna were slain by Rāma’s arrows, and seeing Khara and Dūṣaṇa killed, you must now undertake your task.” Thus concludes the thirty-fourth chapter. Now, let the thirty-fifth chapter be heard. Rāvaṇa, having listened to Śūrpaṇakhā’s words—which caused his hair to bristle—consulted with his ministers, grasped the situation, and set his mind to action. He gathered information, weighed strengths and weaknesses, faults and virtues, and resolved firmly on his course. With determination, he went to his splendid chariot hall, and, remaining concealed, ordered his charioteer, “Let the chariot be yoked.” The swift and skillful charioteer quickly prepared the favored, excellent chariot. Rāvaṇa mounted his chariot, which moved at his will, adorned with gold and gems, and yoked with horses bearing faces like goblins, decorated with golden ornaments. With a roar like thunder, the illustrious lord of the rākṣasas, brother of Kubera, set out for the domain of rivers and groves. Rāvaṇa, ten-headed and twenty-armed, shone splendidly, adorned with heated gold, white whisk and umbrella, his form gleaming like polished beryl—a mountain with ten peaks, enemy of the gods, slayer of sages. Seated in his chariot, he moved like a cloud flashing with lightning across the sky. As he journeyed, he surveyed the regions of mountains, seas, and shores, beholding thousands of trees heavy with blossoms and fruit. The land was adorned with lotus ponds of cool, auspicious waters, and spacious hermitages furnished with altars. He passed groves of plantains, coconut trees, sāla, tāla, tamāla, and others in full bloom. The region was graced by great sages of utmost restraint, by thousands of nāgas, suparṇas, gandharvas, and kinnaras. It was enhanced by siddhas and cāraṇas who had conquered desire, as well as by ājas, vaikhānasas, māṣas, vālakhilyas, and marīcipas. Thus Rāvaṇa, resolute and splendid, journeyed forth, his purpose set, his heart inflamed by desire and ambition.