Sītā sat in deep distress, her eyes wide with sorrow, silently weeping and dejected. Saumitri, Rāma’s younger brother Lakṣmaṇa, tried to comfort her, but Sītā would not speak a word to him. With joined palms, Lakṣmaṇa bowed respectfully to Sītā, his heart heavy, and glancing back at her again and again, he resolutely departed to find Rāma. Having been harshly addressed by Sītā, Lakṣmaṇa, angered and longing for Rāma, set out at once. In that moment, Daśagrīva—Rāvaṇa, the ten-headed king—saw his opportunity and swiftly approached Sītā, who was now alone in the forest, separated from both her husband and Lakṣmaṇa. Rāvaṇa disguised himself as a wandering ascetic, clad in soft ochre robes, with a topknot, an umbrella, and sandals. He carried a beautiful staff and a water-pot slung over his left shoulder, perfectly assuming the guise of a mendicant. Rāvaṇa found Sītā alone, just as twilight is bereft of the sun and moon—she, the young and illustrious princess, was isolated in the wilderness. Like the star Rohiṇī deprived of the moon, Rāvaṇa, fierce and cruel in his intent, approached her ominously, as if he were a planet bringing calamity. The trees of Janasthāna witnessed his arrival. Yet, strangely, the trees did not tremble, nor did the wind blow; even the swift-flowing Godāvarī river, out of fear, began to move sluggishly as Rāvaṇa gazed at Sītā with blood-red eyes. The Godāvarī flowed slowly, and Rāvaṇa, seeking the perfect opportunity against Rāma, drew near to Sītā. Though he appeared worthy in the guise of a mendicant, he was utterly unworthy, and Sītā mourned her absent husband. Rāvaṇa approached her suddenly, like Saturn eclipsing a brilliant star, hiding his true nature behind a worthy appearance—like a dangerous well covered with grass. He stood gazing at Sītā, Rāma’s illustrious wife, his eyes fixed upon her. Sītā, beautiful, with lovely teeth and lips, her face radiant like the full moon, sat in the leaf-hut, overwhelmed by tears and sorrow. The night-stalker Rāvaṇa, his mind delighted by her beauty, approached Sītā, whose eyes were like lotus petals and who wore yellow silk. Pierced by the arrows of desire, he raised his voice with words that sounded like sacred chants and spoke to her privately, with courteous words. Rāvaṇa praised Sītā, her radiant form shining like the highest fortune of the three worlds, deprived of the lotus, her beauty dazzling. Clad in yellow silk and adorned with a garland of lotuses, her appearance rivaled silver and gold, like a blooming lotus pond. He wondered aloud, "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?" He described her beauty: "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. Your breasts are full, high, and lovely, resembling smooth palm-fruits, adorned with gems and pearls, beautiful to behold." "O Rāma’s beloved, with charming smile, lovely teeth, and enchanting eyes, playful one, you steal my mind as water steals the riverbank. With a waist graspable by the hand, beautiful hair, and closely-set breasts, 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 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. 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 pure smile—are you among the wives of Rudras or Maruts? O lovely-hipped, you appear to me as a goddess among the Vasus; for Gandharvas, gods, and Kinnaras do not come here. This is the dwelling of Rākṣasas—how have you come here? Here are tree-dwelling deer, lions, island-tigers, and wolves. There are bears, hyenas, cranes—how do you not fear them? And the fierce, intoxicated, swift elephants?" "How do you, alone in this great forest, O beautiful-faced one, not feel fear? Who are you, whose daughter, from where, and for what reason have you come to Daṇḍaka? O lovely one, you wander alone through places frequented by fierce rākṣasas." Thus, Rāvaṇa, the great-souled but wicked king, praised Sītā. Seeing Rāvaṇa arrive in the guise of a twice-born, Maithilī—Sītā—honored him with all the courtesies due to a guest. She brought a seat, offered water for washing his feet, and said, "All is ready," to the gentle-looking ascetic. Observing him in the attire of a brāhmaṇa, bearing a vessel and kusumbha, Sītā found it impossible to refuse him hospitality and welcomed him as one would a brāhmaṇa. She said, "Here is a seat, brāhmaṇa, please be seated; accept this water for your feet. This excellent forest fare, prepared for you, may you partake of it here without concern." Rāvaṇa, seeing Maithilī, the queen, speaking invitingly and honoring him, firmly resolved in his mind to seize her by force and dedicate himself to her destruction.