Lakṣmaṇa, hearing Sītā’s anguished and accusatory words, spoke to her with a heavy heart. “O Maithilī,” he said, “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 Vaidehī, daughter of Janaka, I cannot bear to listen to such words from you.” He continued, “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 your stubborn 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 grief. Weeping, her eyes brimming with tears, 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 these words, Sītā, overwhelmed by grief, struck her belly with her hands and wept in sorrow. Seeing her in such distress, weeping and dejected, with wide, tear-filled eyes, Saumitri tried to comfort her, but Sītā did not respond to her husband’s brother. Then Lakṣmaṇa, bowing to Sītā with joined palms and inclining slightly, looked back at her again and again, his heart torn, and resolutely set out to find Rāma. Having heard the forty-sixth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa, thus the story continues. Harshly addressed by Sītā, Rāghava’s younger brother, Lakṣmaṇa, angered and anxious for Rāma’s safety, set out at once. At that very moment, Daśagrīva, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa, seized the opportunity. Approaching Vaidehī in the guise of a wandering ascetic, he wore soft ochre robes, his hair tied in a topknot, carrying an umbrella and sandals, with a beautiful staff and a water-pot slung over his left shoulder. Assuming the form of a wandering mendicant, Rāvaṇa followed Sītā, whom he found alone in the forest, separated from her two protectors. She was alone, like twilight bereft of sun and moon—a young, illustrious princess glowing with her own inner light. Fierce and cruel in his heart, Rāvaṇa was as ominous as a calamity-bringing planet; even the trees of Janasthāna saw him and stood silent. The trees did not tremble, nor did the wind stir; even the swift-flowing Godāvarī, out of fear, slowed her current as Rāvaṇa gazed with blood-red eyes. The river, sensing danger, flowed sluggishly. Meanwhile, Daśagrīva, ever scheming against Rāma, drew near. Rāvaṇa, in his mendicant disguise, approached Vaidehī—though unworthy, he appeared worthy—while she sat mourning for her husband. He drew near to Sītā as Saturn approaches a brilliant star, suddenly and deceptively, like a well covered with grass, hiding its danger. Rāvaṇa stood gazing at Vaidehī, Rāma’s illustrious wife, his eyes fixed upon her. There she sat, beautiful, her teeth and lips lovely, her face radiant like the full moon, but now overwhelmed with tears and sorrow in her leaf-hut. The lord of the Rākṣasas, his mind delighted and intent, approached her quietly, his eyes drinking in her lotus-petal gaze and the yellow silk she wore. Pierced by the arrows of desire, Rāvaṇa raised his voice, sounding like the chanting of sacred words, and spoke courteous words in private. He praised her, radiant in form, likening her to the highest fortune of the three worlds, deprived of the lotus, yet shining in her beauty. Clad in yellow silk, adorned with a garland of lotuses, her appearance rivaled silver and gold, like a blooming lotus-pond in spring. 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 herself? 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 and rounded like the trunks of young elephants, well-shaped and closely set. Your breasts are high and lovely, resembling smooth palm-fruits, adorned with gems and pearls, beautiful to behold. “O Rāma’s beloved, with your charming smile, lovely teeth, and enchanting eyes, you steal my mind as water steals the riverbank. With a waist graspable by the hand, beautiful hair, and closely-set breasts, surely you are neither goddess, nor celestial, nor yakṣī, nor kinnarī. Never before on earth have I seen a woman of such form; your beauty, delicacy, and youth are supreme in all the worlds. “Your dwelling in this lonely forest stirs my heart. So, depart, good lady—you should not remain here. This is the abode of Rākṣasas, fierce and shape-shifting; there are splendid palaces and city gardens here. They are rich, fragrant, and suitable for you to enjoy. O beautiful one, you deserve the finest garlands, perfumes, and garments. O dark-eyed one, you deserve a worthy husband. Who are you, with such a pure smile—are you among the wives of the Rudras or the Maruts?” Thus, Rāvaṇa, in the guise of a mendicant, approached Sītā with honeyed words, even as she sat in sorrow, alone in the heart of the forest.