Vaidehi, her eyes brimming with tears and her heart heavy with sorrow, turned to Lakshmana and questioned the purpose of his remaining there, since he had come as their chief protector. Her voice trembled with fear and longing, seeking reassurance in the face of uncertainty. Lakshmana, seeing Sita so frightened—her demeanor gentle and vulnerable, like a deer-cow—spoke to her with calm conviction. He assured her that Rama could not be defeated by serpents, asuras, gandharvas, gods, danavas, or rakshasas. There was no doubt, he said, that her husband was invincible, even before the gods, men, gandharvas, or birds. Among rakshasas, pisacas, kinnaras, and animals, and even among the fierce danavas, none could stand against Rama in battle. Lakshmana reminded her that Rama was equal to Indra in valor and invincibility, urging her not to speak with such fear and doubt. Lakshmana confessed that he could not bear to leave Sita alone in the forest without Raghava, for Rama’s strength was unmatched—even the mightiest could not oppose him. Even if all three worlds, along with their lords and hosts of gods, united against him, Rama’s power would remain unconquered. Lakshmana encouraged Sita to set aside her distress and find peace in her heart. He promised that Rama would soon return, having slain the noble deer, and assured her that the voice she had heard was not truly Rama’s, nor could it have been any god’s. It was, he explained, the illusion of a rakshasa, a trick like the magical cities of the gandharvas. Lakshmana reminded Sita that the great-souled Rama had entrusted her to his care, and he could not abandon her now, especially as they had become enemies to the night-wandering rakshasas. He spoke of the aftermath of Khara’s death and the massacre at Janasthāna, noting that the rakshasas were spreading various words throughout the great forest. Lakshmana urged Sita not to dwell on acts of violence and cruelty. But Sita, angered and her eyes bloodshot, responded with harsh words to Lakshmana, who was ever truthful. She accused him of being ignoble and pitiless, cruel and a disgrace to his family, suggesting that he took pleasure in Rama’s misfortune and spoke these words because he found joy in Rama’s distress. Sita declared that rivalry often breeds evil, especially among the cruel and deceitful, and accused Lakshmana of wickedness for following Rama into the forest, perhaps for her sake or at Bharata’s behest. She insisted that such schemes would not succeed, for she had taken Rama, dark as a blue lotus and lotus-eyed, as her husband and could never desire another man. She vowed that, in Lakshmana’s very presence, she would give up her life, for without Rama she could not live even for a moment. Lakshmana, self-controlled and reverent, joined his palms and spoke to Sita, declaring that he could not reply, for she was as a goddess to him. He remarked that unfitting words from women were not surprising, as such is the nature of women in the world—fickle, unrestrained, sharp, and divisive. He confessed he could not endure such words and called upon all the dwellers of the forest to bear witness as he spoke, words piercing as heated arrows between his ears. He lamented that, though he had spoken justly, Sita had addressed him harshly, expressing shame for her suspicion. Lakshmana declared that, due to her womanhood and stubborn nature, she remained fixed in her view. He resolved to go to Rama, wishing Sita well and praying that all the forest deities would protect her, for dreadful omens appeared to him. Lakshmana hoped to see her again, reunited with Rama upon his return. Thus addressed, Janaka’s daughter, overwhelmed with tears, replied to Lakshmana, expressing her despair. Deprived of Rama, she said, she would enter the Godāvarī, tie a noose, or abandon her body in some perilous place. She would drink deadly poison or enter a blazing fire, but would never touch any man other than Raghava. Sita, overcome with grief, struck her belly with her hands as she wept in sorrow. Seeing her so distraught, wide-eyed and dejected, Saumitri tried to comfort her, but Sita remained silent toward her husband’s brother. Lakshmana, bowing to Sita with joined palms and inclining slightly, looked back at her again and again, then resolutely set out to find Rama. Now begins the forty-sixth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Having been harshly addressed, Raghava’s younger brother, angered and longing for Rama, departed at once. Seizing the opportunity, Daśagrīva—Ravana—approached Vaidehi in the guise of a wandering ascetic. Clad in soft ochre robes, with a topknot, umbrella, and sandals, he carried a beautiful staff and water-pot slung over his left shoulder. In this form, he followed Vaidehi, whom he found alone in the forest, separated from her two protectors. Alone, like twilight bereft of sun and moon, Ravana saw her—a young and illustrious princess. Like Rohiṇī deprived of the moon, Ravana, fierce and cruel in deed, was as ominous as a calamity-bringing planet. The trees of Janasthāna witnessed his arrival. Yet, seeing him, the trees did not tremble, nor did the wind blow. Even the swift-flowing Godāvarī, out of fear, slowed its movement as Ravana gazed upon Sita with blood-red eyes.