Lakṣmaṇa, ever steadfast in truth, found himself the target of Sītā’s anguished words. Overwhelmed by fear for Rāma’s safety and distraught by Lakṣmaṇa’s refusal to go after her husband, Sītā’s voice rang out, sharp and accusing: “You are ignoble, pitiless in your intent, cruel—a disgrace to your family. I believe 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, 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 her words, Lakṣmaṇa, composed and reverent, joined his palms and replied gently, “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, seen 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 words, piercing as heated arrows, between both my ears. 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 spoken to by Lakṣmaṇa, Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, wept bitterly, her tears falling in torrents. Her voice trembled with despair as 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.” Overwhelmed by grief, Sītā struck her belly with her hands, her sobs echoing through the forest. Lakṣmaṇa watched her, heart aching at her sorrow, but Sītā, lost in her grief, gave him no reply. Bowing low with joined palms, Lakṣmaṇa gazed back at her again and again, then, resolute, set out to find Rāma. Having been harshly addressed by Sītā, Rāghava’s younger brother, angered and anxious for Rāma, departed at once. In that fateful moment, Daśagrīva—Rāvaṇa—seized his opportunity. Assuming the guise of a wandering ascetic, he approached Vaidehī. He wore soft ochre robes, a topknot, carried an umbrella and sandals, and bore a beautiful staff and water-pot slung over his left shoulder. In this disguise, Rāvaṇa moved toward Sītā, whom he found alone in the forest, separated from her protectors. She sat, radiant yet forlorn, like twilight bereft of the sun and moon, or like Rohiṇī deprived of the moon itself. Fierce and cruel in his intent, Rāvaṇa, ominous as a planet of ill-omen, was witnessed by the trees of Janasthāna. Yet, as he approached, the trees did not tremble, nor did the wind stir. Even the swift Godāvarī, out of fear, slowed her flow as Rāvaṇa’s blood-red eyes fell upon her. Thus, with nature itself subdued by dread, Rāvaṇa, seeking to exploit Rāma’s absence, drew near to Sītā, presenting himself as a worthy ascetic while inwardly harboring unworthy designs. He approached her like Saturn approaching a brilliant star, his true nature masked as by grass covering a hidden well. He stood gazing at Sītā, Rāma’s illustrious wife, her beauty undiminished though her heart was heavy with sorrow. She sat in the leaf-hut, her face radiant as the full moon, her tears glistening. The night-stalker, delighted by her loveliness—her eyes like lotus petals, her garments of yellow silk—drew closer. Pierced by the arrows of desire, he raised his voice, chanting words with the cadence of sacred mantras, and addressed her with polished courtesy. Rāvaṇa praised her, marveling at her radiance, likening her to the highest fortune of the three worlds deprived of the lotus, shining in her beauty. “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? Your teeth are even, smooth, and white as mountain-snow; your eyes are large and clear, with red corners and dark pupils. Your hips are broad, your thighs full, rounded, and firm, like the trunks of young elephants, well-shaped and closely set.” Thus, Rāvaṇa, disguised as an ascetic, stood before sorrowful Sītā, his intentions masked by gentle words, while the world itself held its breath.