Like the autumn moon briefly glimpsed through drifting clouds, the golden deer would appear for a moment before vanishing into the forest, its beauty shining from afar. In this way, Maricha—transformed into the wondrous deer—lured Rama, the scion of the Kakutstha line, far from the hermitage. Rama, bewildered and angered by this elusive creature, soon found himself helpless and exhausted. Seeking respite, he paused beneath the shade of a tree, resting on the soft grass. Yet the demon, still in the form of a deer, continued to agitate Rama. Surrounded by other deer, Maricha would occasionally draw near, only to retreat again. Whenever Rama tried to seize him, the deer would dart away in fear, vanishing from sight. Then, from a distance, Maricha would reappear from behind a tree, and Rama—radiant and resolute—set his mind firmly on slaying the creature. Now filled with wrath, Rama took up a shining arrow, blazing like the sun’s rays and forged for the destruction of enemies. He fitted it to his strong bow, drawing it back with great force, aiming at the deer whose breath hissed like a serpent. Rama released the flaming, radiant arrow—crafted by Brahma himself—and it flew straight and true, piercing the heart of the deer-form. Struck as if by a thunderbolt, Maricha leapt up a palm’s length and fell, mortally wounded. As his life ebbed away, he uttered a dreadful cry and abandoned his illusory form. In his final moments, Maricha remembered the words of Ravana and pondered how best to draw Lakshmana away, so that Ravana might seize Sita alone. Realizing the time had come, Maricha cried out in a voice that perfectly imitated Rama’s own: “Alas, Sita! Lakshmana!” Pierced by Rama’s incomparable arrow, Maricha shed the guise of the deer and revealed his true, terrifying rakshasa form. His immense body fell lifeless to the earth. Rama saw the demon’s blood-soaked form writhing on the ground and, recalling Lakshmana’s earlier warnings, was filled with foreboding. “This was Maricha’s illusion, as Lakshmana had said; now it has come to pass—Maricha has been slain by me. But, crying out ‘Alas, Sita! Lakshmana!’ in my voice, what will happen to Sita?” Rama’s heart shuddered with fear. He realized that, hearing that desperate cry, Lakshmana—mighty-armed and devoted—might leave Sita behind, driven by a sense of duty. Overcome by dread and anxiety, Rama quickly gathered the flesh of a spotted deer he had also killed and hurried back toward Janasthana. Meanwhile, in the hermitage, Sita heard that anguished cry echoing through the forest—so like her husband’s voice. Alarmed, she turned to Lakshmana and pleaded, “Go and find out what has happened to Raghava. My heart is unsteady, my life feels threatened. I have heard the cry of one in great distress, and it has shaken me deeply. You must save your brother, who calls for help in the forest. Quickly, run to him—your brother who seeks refuge.” She continued, “He has fallen into the hands of the rakshasas, like a bull among lions.” But Lakshmana, remembering Rama’s command, did not move. Distressed, Sita, the daughter of Janaka, spoke again, her words trembling with sorrow: “Son of Sumitra, though you appear as a friend, you act as an enemy to your brother. If you do not go to him now, then surely, Lakshmana, it is for my sake that you wish for Rama’s destruction. Out of desire for me, you do not follow Raghava. I believe you take pleasure in his misfortune and have no affection for your brother. That is why you remain here so confidently, while he, the radiant one, is in danger. What will become of me if he, in whom I trust, is lost? Why do you stay here, when you were meant to be our protector?” Sita’s tears fell as she spoke, her heart heavy with fear. Lakshmana, seeing Sita so frightened—like a deer cow—tried to reassure her. “By serpents, asuras, gandharvas, gods, danavas, or rakshasas—none can defeat your husband, Vaidehi. There is no doubt. Among rakshasas, pisacas, kinnaras, animals, even the fiercest danavas, there is none who could face Rama in battle. He is equal to Indra, invincible in war. You should not speak so. I cannot bear to leave you alone in this forest without Raghava, whose strength none can withstand—not even the combined might of the three worlds and their lords. Let your heart be at peace; set aside your distress.” He continued, “Your husband will soon return, having slain the noble deer. The voice you heard is not truly his, nor could it be any god’s. It was the illusion of a rakshasa, like a city conjured by the gandharvas. O Vaidehi, you have been entrusted to me by the great-souled Rama. How can I abandon you here? You are auspicious, and now, we have become enemies to these night-wanderers.” Thus, the forest echoed with the consequences of Maricha’s illusion, and the hearts of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana were gripped by fear, longing, and uncertainty.