Hearing the words of Mārīca, Rāvaṇa, king of the rākṣasas, was warned of his doom. Mārīca spoke with grave foreboding, “O Rāvaṇa, all the demons are certain to perish under a king who is cruel, foolish, and incapable of mastering his own senses. This dreadful fate has befallen me by chance, and now you too stand on the brink of destruction. You and your mighty army will not survive. After slaying me, Rāma will soon bring about your end as well. By dying at his hands, my purpose is fulfilled—I fall, struck down by an enemy. Consider me already dead, for merely to be seen by Rāma is to be destroyed. Know that you, who have abducted Sītā and her kin, are also doomed. If you insist on taking Sītā from her hermitage along with me, neither you, nor I, nor Lanka, nor any of the rākṣasas will endure. Though I, your well-wisher, strive to restrain you, you pay no heed, O night-wanderer. Men whose fate is sealed, like the dead themselves, do not listen to the counsel of friends.” Thus concludes the forty-first chapter and begins the forty-second, as told in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Aranya Kāṇḍa. Having spoken these harsh truths, Mārīca, sorrowful and fearful of the lord of night-wanderers, said to Rāvaṇa, “Let us go.” He lamented, “Once more I am in the sight of him who bears bow, arrows, and sword, whose weapon is ever raised to strike me down. My life is already forfeit. No one who confronts Rāma returns alive; for you, he is as Yama’s own punishment. What can I possibly do, since you are so set in wickedness? I will go now, O night-wanderer. May you fare well.” But these words delighted Rāvaṇa. Embracing Mārīca tightly, he spoke with satisfaction, “Now you possess the courage to act as I wish. You are truly Mārīca now, whereas before you were like another demon. Come, mount this swift, bird-like chariot, adorned with jewels, yoked with donkeys bearing ghastly faces. Together, let us depart. After you have enticed Vaidehī, you may go as you wish; in that deserted place, I will seize Sītā, the princess of Mithilā, by force.” Agreeing to this, Mārīca, Tāṭakā’s son, spoke to Rāvaṇa. The two of them, like a flying palace, boarded the magnificent chariot. Swiftly they departed from the circle of hermitages, observing cities and forests as they traveled. They gazed upon mountains, rivers, realms, and towns, until at last they reached the Daṇḍaka forest and arrived at Rāghava’s hermitage. There, with Mārīca at his side, Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, beheld the hermitage. Dismounting from the golden-adorned chariot, he took Mārīca by the hand and said, “This is Rāma’s hermitage, surrounded by banana trees. Friend, quickly do what we have come here to do.” Hearing Rāvaṇa’s words, Mārīca, the rākṣasa, assumed the wondrous and astonishing form of a deer. He wandered at the entrance of Rāma’s hermitage, transformed into a creature of surpassing beauty. His horns gleamed with the finest jewels, his face was both white and black, his mouth like a red lotus, and his ears like blue lotuses. His neck was slightly raised, his belly shone like blue sapphire, his flanks resembled honey-colored flowers and the filaments of a lotus. His hooves sparkled like beryl, his slender legs were perfectly formed, and his radiant tail glowed with the colors of Indra’s rainbow. Adorned with glossy hues and various gems, the rākṣasa became a deer of supreme beauty in an instant. He illuminated the lovely forest and Rāma’s hermitage, making himself delightful and pleasing to the eye. To entice Vaidehī, he wandered, adorned with many minerals, moving gracefully across the green meadows. With hundreds of silvery spots marking his enchanting form, he nibbled at the tender leaves of the trees. He roamed among the banana groves and kārṇikāra trees, lingering with gentle steps, awaiting Sītā’s gaze. His back was patterned like a lotus, and he shone brilliantly near Rāma’s hermitage, wandering at ease. Sometimes he would move away swiftly, only to return again, frolicking on the ground or sitting quietly. He approached the hermitage gate, mingling with the herds of deer. The other deer followed him, drawn by his beauty, but he always turned back, longing for Sītā’s eyes to fall upon him. He circled about, tracing dazzling patterns, and as he moved, all the other forest-dwelling deer gazed at him in wonder. They approached to sniff him, but then scattered in all directions, while the rākṣasa, delighting in the hunt, mingled among them. Yet, to conceal his true nature, he did not eat, though he touched them. At that very moment, Vaidehī—Sītā with her lovely eyes—was wandering among the trees, gathering flowers: kārṇikāra, ashoka, and mango. Her gaze was intoxicating. As she roamed, collecting blossoms, the radiant-faced Sītā, unaccustomed to forest life, beheld that jewel-like deer. She saw the marvelous creature, its limbs adorned with pearls and gems, its teeth and lips gleaming, and its silvery, metallic hair shining in the forest light.