With humility and a trembling heart, Maricha began to recount his tale to Ravana. “Once, disregarding Rama, who was dwelling in the forest—a man of immense strength—I approached him, thinking him merely an ascetic and recalling my former enmity. Taking the form of a deer with sharp horns, I rushed at him, my mind inflamed with anger, intent on killing him, still smarting from a previous blow I had received. Rama, however, drew his mighty bow and loosed three sharp arrows, each a destroyer of enemies, their speed matching Garuda and the wind itself. Those arrows, terrifying and thirsting for blood, flashed toward me together, their force like thunderbolts, their joints bent as they advanced. Knowing Rama’s valor, and being deceitful by nature, I recalled the danger I had once faced and managed to escape; yet, those arrows found their mark, and the other Rakshasas who were with me were slain. Freed by Rama’s arrow and somehow clinging to life, I have wandered ever since, now living as an ascetic, my mind finally composed. Yet on every tree I look upon, I see Rama—clad in bark and black deer skin, bow in hand—looming before me like Death himself with a noose. Even thousands of Ramas I seem to see, so terrified am I, O Ravana; the entire forest appears to me as if it has become Rama. Even in solitude, O lord of Rakshasas, I see only Rama. Having seen him in my dreams, I wander now, bewildered and senseless. Names beginning with ‘Ra’, gems, chariots—everything fills me with dread, for I am haunted by fear of Rama. I know his power, and battle with him is not wise for you. The descendant of Raghu could slay even Bali or Namuci. So, fight Rama in battle if you must, or else show patience, O Ravana. But if you wish to see me alive, speak no more of Rama. Many virtuous people in this world, devoted to righteousness, have perished along with their possessions because of the offenses of others. In the same way, I too may perish for another’s offense, O night-wanderer. Do what you think best, but I will not follow you. Rama is possessed of great splendor, courage, and strength; he could even destroy the world of Rakshasas. If Khara, because of Shurpanakha, went to Janasthana and was excessively violent, and was then slain by Rama—whose deeds are effortless—then tell me, what fault lies with Rama? If you do not accept these words, spoken by me for your welfare and that of your kin, then you and your relatives will lose your lives in battle, slain today by Rama’s straight-flying arrows.” Thus concluded Maricha’s warning. Now, let the fortieth chapter of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda, be heard. Ravana, however, upon hearing Maricha’s honest and fitting words, did not accept them, like a man wishing for death who rejects medicine. Driven by fate, the lord of the Rakshasas responded with harsh and unfitting words to Maricha, who had only given wholesome and beneficial advice. “This speech, Maricha, is unfit and meaningless, coming from one of ignoble lineage; it is utterly fruitless, like a seed sown in barren ground. Your words cannot deter me from battle with Rama, especially since he is but a foolish, sinful human. He who abandoned friends, kingdom, mother, and father, and went alone to the forest upon the mere words of a woman—what power does he have? Certainly, in battle with the slayer of Khara, I will seize Sita, who is dearer to him than life itself, right before your eyes. Such is the firm resolve in my heart, Maricha; it cannot be turned aside, not even by the gods or demons together with Indra. When asked about the faults or merits of a plan, you ought to speak only of the task at hand, whether it brings danger or opportunity. When questioned, a wise minister should speak with hands joined in respect to the king, if he desires his own prosperity. Words that are not opposed, gentle, auspicious, and beneficial should be spoken to the ruler, with proper decorum and appropriateness. If words are spoken that are harsh or even beneficial, but lack respect, the king who values honor should not welcome them. Kings of immeasurable energy bear five forms: those of Agni, Indra, Soma, Yama, and Varuna. Great kings, O night-wanderer, possess heat, valor, gentleness, punishment, and graciousness, just as those deities do. Therefore, in all circumstances, they must always be honored and revered; but you, ignorant of duty, are seized by delusion. Out of wickedness, you have spoken such harsh words to one who has come to you. I do not ask about merits or faults, nor about your own welfare, O Rakshasa. Even after all this has been said, O one of restrained prowess, you must assist me in this task. Hear now what I require of you: you must become a golden deer, adorned with silver spots. Roam before Sita in Rama’s hermitage; after enticing Vaidehi, you may depart as you wish. When Maithili sees you—a magical, golden creature—she will be amazed and quickly say to Rama, ‘Bring it to me!’ And when Kakutstha has gone far away, you should cry out, ‘Ha, Sita! Lakshmana!’ in a voice resembling Rama’s. Hearing that, and urged by Sita, Saumitri too, out of friendship, will anxiously follow Rama’s path. Once both Rama and Lakshmana have departed, I will seize Vaidehi at my ease, just as the thousand-eyed Indra once took Shachi.” Thus, despite Maricha’s heartfelt warnings, Ravana’s resolve remained unshaken, and his mind was set on the abduction of Sita, heedless of the great peril that awaited.