When Khara was slain and the massacre at Janasthāna had shaken the forest, troubling words began to spread among the Rākṣasas who dwelled there. In the midst of this turmoil, Lakṣmaṇa turned to Sītā and gently advised her, “O Vaidehī, do not dwell on these acts of violence and cruelty.” But as Lakṣmaṇa spoke, Sītā’s grief and agitation boiled over. Her eyes reddened with anger, and she addressed Lakṣmaṇa, who was ever truthful, in harsh and cutting words. “You are ignoble,” she burst out, “pitiless in your intent, cruel, and a disgrace to your family. I think you take pleasure in Rāma’s great misfortune. Seeing him in distress, you speak such words! It is not surprising if evil arises among rivals, Lakṣmaṇa, especially among the cruel and ever-deceitful like you. You are truly wicked, following Rāma alone into the forest, secretly—either for my sake or sent by Bharata. But this will not succeed, O son of Sumitrā, neither for you nor for Bharata. How could I, having taken Rāma, dark as a blue lotus and lotus-eyed, as my husband, ever desire another man? In your very presence, O son of Sumitrā, I will surely give up my life. Without Rāma, I cannot live even for a moment on this earth.” Stung by Sītā’s words, Lakṣmaṇa, ever self-controlled, joined his palms in humility and replied, “I am unable to answer you, for you are as a goddess to me. O Maithilī, it is not surprising to hear such unfitting words from women; this is the nature of women in this world. Women are fickle, unrestrained, sharp, and divisive. O Vaidehī, daughter of Janaka, I cannot endure such words. Let all the dwellers of the forest bear witness as I speak these words, which are as piercing as heated arrows. Though I have spoken justly, you have addressed me with harsh words. Shame on you, who are perishing, for suspecting me in this way. Because of your womanhood and wicked nature, you remain fixed in your own view. I go now to where Rāma is—may you fare well, O beautiful-faced one. May all the forest deities protect you, O wide-eyed one, for dreadful omens are appearing to me. May I see you again, together with Rāma, when I return.” Thus addressed by Lakṣmaṇa, Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, was overcome with tears and sorrow. Weeping intensely, she replied, “Deprived of Rāma, O Lakṣmaṇa, I will enter the Godāvarī, or else I will tie a noose or abandon my body in some perilous place. I will drink deadly poison or enter a blazing fire, but I will never touch any man other than Rāghava.” As she spoke, grief overwhelmed her further, and she struck her belly with her hands, sobbing in anguish. Seeing her in such distress, Lakṣmaṇa’s heart ached. He tried to comfort her, but Sītā, lost in her sorrow, would not answer him. Bowing with joined palms and inclining his head in reverence, Lakṣmaṇa looked back at her again and again, then resolutely set off to find Rāma. As Lakṣmaṇa departed, his heart burning with anger from Sītā’s harsh words and longing for Rāma, a new danger crept near. Daśagrīva, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa, seized this moment. Disguised as a wandering ascetic, he approached Vaidehī. He wore soft ochre robes, his hair tied in a topknot, an umbrella and sandals upon him, a beautiful staff and water-pot slung over his left shoulder. In this guise, he followed Vaidehī, whom he found alone in the forest, separated from her two protectors. She was alone, like twilight bereft of sun and moon—a young and radiant princess. Like Rohiṇī deprived of the moon, she shone with beauty, while Rāvaṇa, fierce and cruel, loomed like a planet of ill omen. The trees of Janasthāna watched as he approached, but did not tremble; the wind did not stir; even the swift-flowing Godāvarī slowed, as if in dread of his blood-red gaze. Thus, Rāvaṇa, seeking an opportunity against Rāma, drew near to Vaidehī, unworthy though he appeared worthy. Sītā, mourning her absent husband, sat in the leaf-hut, her face like the full moon, overwhelmed by tears. Rāvaṇa, the night-stalker, delighted in his heart, came close to her—her eyes like lotus petals, her body adorned in yellow silk. Pierced by the arrows of desire, Rāvaṇa raised his voice, chanting words as if sacred, and spoke to her with feigned courtesy. He praised her, radiant as the highest fortune of the three worlds, shining in her beauty like a blooming lotus-pond. Clad in yellow silk, garlanded with lotuses, her form seemed to rival silver and gold. He asked, “Are you Modesty, Fortune, Fame, Auspicious Lakṣmī, or a celestial nymph, O beautiful-faced one? Or are you Prosperity, O lovely-hipped, or the free-roaming goddess of Love?” Thus, Rāvaṇa, disguised and full of desire, stood before Sītā, while the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.