Recalling the demon’s instructions, Maricha, who had assumed the form of a golden deer, pondered deeply: by what means could he lure Lakshmana away from the hermitage, leaving Sita alone and vulnerable to Ravana’s plan? Seizing the opportune moment, Maricha let out a desperate cry, perfectly mimicking the voice of Rama, calling out, “Alas, Sita! Lakshmana!” The sound echoed through the forest, full of anguish. At that very instant, struck by Rama’s peerless arrow, Maricha could no longer sustain his illusion. He abandoned the enchanting form of the deer and revealed his true, terrible rakshasa form. His massive body, now drenched in blood, writhed upon the earth. Life ebbed from him as Rama looked on, recognizing the demon’s ghastly appearance. As Maricha fell, Rama’s thoughts turned at once to Sita, and he remembered Lakshmana’s earlier warnings about the deceitful magic of rakshasas. Rama realized that Maricha’s illusion had unfolded just as Lakshmana had predicted. Now, slain by Rama’s own hand, Maricha had accomplished his final trick. As the dying demon cried out once more in Rama’s voice—“Alas, Sita! Lakshmana!”—Rama’s heart was seized by anxiety. What would become of Sita, hearing such a cry? Surely, Rama thought, the mighty-armed Lakshmana, driven by concern for his brother, would leave Sita and rush into the forest. This thought made Rama’s hair stand on end, and a deep fear, born of love and worry, gripped him. Having killed the deceptive deer and hearing that fateful cry, Rama quickly gathered the flesh of another spotted deer and hurried back toward Janasthana, anxious to return to Sita. Meanwhile, back at the hermitage, Sita heard that anguished voice echoing through the forest, so like her beloved Rama’s. Her heart trembled with fear and sorrow. She turned to Lakshmana and pleaded, “Go, find out what has happened to Raghava. My life is in danger; my heart is unsteady. I have heard the voice of one in great distress, and it has shaken me deeply. You must save your brother, who calls out for help. Quickly, run to him, for he seeks refuge in you.” Sita’s anxiety grew as she imagined Rama fallen into the hands of the rakshasas, like a mighty bull surrounded by lions. Yet Lakshmana, remembering his brother’s command to protect Sita above all, did not move. Disturbed, Sita’s grief turned to desperation. “Son of Sumitra,” she said, her voice trembling, “though you appear as a friend, you act as an enemy to your brother. If you do not go to him now, then surely it is for my sake that you wish for Rama’s destruction. Out of desire for me, you remain here instead of following Raghava. You take pleasure in his misfortune, and your heart holds no true affection for your brother. How can you stand here so confidently, unmoved by his absence? If he, in whom I trust, is in danger, what will become of me? Why do you remain, when you are supposed to be our protector?” Sita’s tears flowed as she spoke these words, her sorrow overwhelming. Lakshmana, seeing Sita so distraught and frightened, tried to reassure her. He spoke gently, “O Vaidehi, do not fear. By serpents, asuras, gandharvas, gods, danavas, or rakshasas—your husband cannot be defeated. There is no one among gods, men, gandharvas, birds, rakshasas, pisacas, kinnaras, or even the fiercest danavas who could stand against Rama in battle. He is equal to Indra, invincible, and his strength cannot be overcome, even by the combined might of all three worlds and their lords. Let your heart be at peace. The voice you heard was not truly his, nor could it be the voice of any god. It was the illusion of a rakshasa, like a city conjured by the gandharvas. Rama entrusted you to my care, and I cannot bear to leave you here alone. Since Khara was slain, the rakshasas of the forest have spoken many words about vengeance and violence. O Vaidehi, do not let your mind dwell on these acts of cruelty.” But Sita, her heart inflamed by fear and anger, spoke harshly to Lakshmana, her eyes red with tears. “You are ignoble, pitiless in your intent, cruel, and a disgrace to your family. You take pleasure in Rama’s misfortune and speak these words while he suffers. It is not surprising if evil arises among rivals, especially among the cruel and ever-deceitful like you. You are truly wicked, following Rama alone into the forest, perhaps for my sake, or perhaps sent by Bharata. But your schemes will not succeed, neither for you nor for Bharata. How could I, who have taken Rama—dark as a blue lotus, lotus-eyed—as my husband, ever desire another man? In your very presence, I will give up my life rather than betray Rama. Without him, I cannot live even for a moment on this earth.” Lakshmana, stung by Sita’s fierce words but ever self-controlled, joined his palms and replied softly, “O Maithili, you are as a goddess to me. I cannot answer you harshly. It is not surprising to hear such words in times of distress; this is the nature of women, as seen in this world.” Thus, amid fear, misunderstanding, and the shadow of Maricha’s illusion, the fates of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana hung in delicate balance in the lonely forest.