Sensing that the moment had come, Maricha let out a desperate cry, perfectly mimicking Rama’s voice, calling out, “Alas, Sita! Lakshmana!” At that very instant, struck in a vital spot by Rama’s peerless arrow, Maricha could no longer maintain his enchanted form. The guise of the golden deer fell away, and he revealed himself in his true shape—a terrifying demon of immense size. Life left Maricha’s body, and he collapsed to the ground, a fearsome rakshasa lying lifeless and dreadful to behold. Rama stood over the slain demon, his body soaked in blood and writhing in the throes of death. As he looked upon Maricha’s fallen form, Rama’s thoughts turned anxiously to Sita, and he recalled Lakshmana’s earlier warnings. The illusion conjured by Maricha had come to pass exactly as Lakshmana had foreseen—Maricha had met his end at Rama’s hands. But as the demon perished, he cried out again in Rama’s voice, “Alas, Sita! Lakshmana!” The sound echoed through the forest, and Rama’s heart trembled with worry: What would become of Sita when she heard such a cry? Surely, Lakshmana, mighty and devoted, would be compelled to leave her side, driven by concern for his brother. The thought filled Rama with dread, and his hair stood on end. A deep and anxious fear seized Rama, born from his love and concern for Sita. He had slain the demon in the form of a deer, but the consequences of Maricha’s final cry weighed heavily on him. Gathering the flesh of another spotted deer he had killed, Rama hurried back towards Janasthana, anxious to return to Sita’s side. Meanwhile, back at the hut, Sita heard the anguished cry echoing through the forest, unmistakably her husband’s voice. Overcome with fear, she turned to Lakshmana and pleaded, “Go, find out what has happened to Raghava! My life feels threatened, and my heart is unsteady—I heard a cry of great distress, and it has shaken me to my core. You must save your brother, who is calling out for help in the forest. Run quickly to him—he seeks your refuge!” She continued, “He has fallen into the hands of the rakshasas, just as a bull might fall among lions.” Yet Lakshmana, remembering Rama’s command, did not move from her side. Disturbed and desperate, Sita spoke again, her voice trembling with emotion. “Son of Sumitra, though you appear as a friend, you are acting 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 do not follow Raghava. I think you take pleasure in his misfortune, and you have no affection for your brother. That is why you remain here so confidently, even as he, the one in whom I trust, is in danger. What would become of me if he were lost? What is the point of your staying here, when you were meant to be our protector?” Tears streamed down her face as she spoke these words, her heart heavy with sorrow. Lakshmana, seeing her so distraught, tried to reassure her with gentle firmness. “O frightened Sita, neither serpents, asuras, gandharvas, gods, danavas, nor rakshasas can defeat your husband. Rama cannot be overcome by gods, men, gandharvas, or even birds. Among rakshasas, pisacas, kinnaras, animals, and even the fiercest danavas, there is none who could withstand Rama in battle—he is equal to Indra in might, invincible in war. You should not speak such words.” He continued, “I cannot leave you alone in this forest without Raghava. His strength is unmatched, even by the strongest beings. Even if all three worlds, with their lords and the hosts of gods, were to unite, they could not overcome his power. Let your heart be at peace, and set aside your distress. Rama will soon return, having slain the noble deer. The voice you heard was not truly his, nor could it have been any god’s. That was the illusion of the rakshasa, like a city conjured by the gandharvas. O Vaidehi, you have been entrusted to me by the great-souled Rama.” Lakshmana pleaded, “Fair-hipped one, I cannot bear to abandon you here, for Rama has placed you under my protection. Now, since we have slain Khara and the rakshasas at Janasthana, these night-wanderers bear us enmity. O Devi, many words are spoken by the rakshasas in the great forest regarding the slaughter at Janasthana. You should not dwell on these acts of violence and cruelty.” But Sita, angered and her eyes reddened with tears, spoke harshly to Lakshmana, who always spoke the truth. “You are ignoble, pitiless in your intent, cruel, and a disgrace to your family. I think you take pleasure in Rama’s great misfortune. Seeing Rama in distress, you speak these words. 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, either for my sake or sent by Bharata. But this will not succeed, neither for you nor for Bharata. How could I, having chosen Rama—dark as a blue lotus, lotus-eyed—as my husband, ever desire another man? In your very presence, son of Sumitra, I will surely give up my life. Without Rama, I cannot live even for a moment on this earth.” Thus, Sita addressed Lakshmana with harsh words that made his hair stand on end. Yet Lakshmana, self-controlled and reverent, joined his palms and replied, “I am unable to answer you, for you are as a goddess to me, O Maithili. It is not surprising to hear such unfitting words from women—this is the nature of women, as seen in this world. Women are fickle, unrestrained, sharp, and divisive. O Vaidehi, daughter of Janaka, I cannot endure such words from you.” So, amid the swirling fears and harsh words, the fate of Sita, Rama, and Lakshmana hung in the balance, each bound by love, duty, and the shadows of illusion cast by their enemies.