Sītā spoke with gentle dignity, her words reflecting the truth of her life. “I asked for neither wealth nor favors, nor did I make any further requests. My husband, radiant and illustrious, was twenty-five years old then. As for myself, eighteen years have passed since my birth. In this world, I am known as Rāma—one who is truthful, virtuous, and pure. “My husband is wide-eyed and strong-armed, always devoted to the welfare of all beings. My father is King Daśaratha himself, a man of great desires. When the time came for my consecration, my father did not anoint me, Rāma, for the throne, seeking instead to fulfill Kaikeyī’s cherished wish. “Kaikeyī swiftly spoke to my husband, saying, ‘Hear these words, Rāghava, as commanded by your father on my behalf: This peaceful kingdom must be given to Bharata, and you must dwell in the forest for fourteen years. Go to the forest, O descendant of Kakutstha, and free your father from falsehood.’ Rāma, undaunted, replied to Kaikeyī, ‘So be it.’ “Upon hearing those words, my steadfast husband obeyed. He is one who gives but does not accept, speaks only the truth and never falsehood. This is the supreme vow that Rāma holds firmly. He has a brother, born of another mother, named Lakṣmaṇa, mighty in valor. Lakṣmaṇa, a tiger among men and destroyer of foes, is devoted to Rāma, a steadfast celibate, unwavering in his vows. “Armed with his bow, Lakṣmaṇa followed Rāma as he departed, and I went with them both. With matted hair and the garb of ascetics, the two brothers accompanied me. Constant in righteousness and steadfast in their vows, they entered the Daṇḍaka forest. Thus, we three were cast out from the kingdom because of Kaikeyī. “O best of Brāhmaṇas,” Sītā continued, “with vigor we wander this deep forest. If you wish, you may rest here for a moment. My husband will soon return, bringing abundant forest fare—having slain deer, iguanas, and boars, he will bring much meat. “So, tell me truly your name, your lineage, and your family. And, O Brāhmaṇa, for what purpose do you wander alone in the Daṇḍaka forest?” As Sītā, wife of Rāma, spoke thus, the mighty lord of the Rākṣasas, Rāvaṇa, gave her a harsh reply. “I am that Rāvaṇa, by whom the worlds—gods, asuras, and humans—have been terrified, O Sītā. I am lord of the Rākṣasas. “Seeing you, faultless one, with your golden complexion and silk attire, I find no pleasure in my own wives. Among the many excellent women I have brought from afar, let all be well with you—become my chief queen. Lanka is the name of my great city, set in the midst of the ocean, encircled by the sea and perched atop a mountain. There, O Sītā, you shall wander with me through pleasant forests, and you will not yearn for this forest exile, O beautiful one. Five thousand maidservants, adorned with every ornament, will attend upon you, Sītā, if you become my wife.” But when Rāvaṇa spoke thus, Janaka’s daughter, flawless in form, became angry. She replied to that rakshasa, disregarding his words: “I am devoted to Rāma, who is unshakable like a great mountain, majestic as Mahendra, and unfathomable as the vast ocean. I am devoted to Rāma, who bears all auspicious marks, whose form is like a banyan tree, steadfast in truth and noble in character. I am devoted to Rāma, whose arms are mighty, whose chest is broad, who strides with the gait of a lion—a lion among men, whose appearance is like a lion’s. I am devoted to Rāma, whose face is like the full moon, who is a royal scion, master of his senses, famed throughout the world, and whose arms are powerful. “You are like a jackal desiring a lioness—such a union is impossible. You cannot touch me, just as one cannot grasp the radiance of the sun. Surely, O fool, you must see golden trees, for you desire the beloved wife of Rāghava. You wish to snatch the fangs from a hungry lion, the swift enemy of deer, or to seize the jaws of a venomous serpent. You wish to lift Mandara, the foremost mountain, with your hand, or to drink deadly poison and go unharmed. You rub your eye with a needle and lick a razor with your tongue, for you desire to attain the beloved wife of Rāghava. You wish to swim across the ocean with a stone tied to your neck, or to seize the sun and moon with your hands. You, who wish to violate Rāma’s beloved wife, desire to snatch blazing fire with a cloth when you see it. You, who wish to seize Rāma’s virtuous wife, desire to walk upon the tips of iron spears, for you wish to attain a wife equal to Rāma. “The distance between a lion and a jackal in the forest, between a river and the ocean, between the finest wine and ordinary liquor—that is the distance between Daśaratha’s son and you. The distance between gold, lead, and iron, between sandalwood, water, and mud, between elephants and donkeys in the forest—that is the distance between Daśaratha’s son and you. “While Rāma, radiant as Indra, stands with bow and arrow in hand, even though I have been taken from him, I shall not succumb to old age—just as clarified butter, when swallowed by a fly, is not diminished.” Thus did Sītā, pure in intent, speak to the night-wandering demon, though he was wicked. Yet, as she spoke, her limbs trembled and she became distressed, slender as a banana plant shaken by the wind. Observing Sītā’s trembling, Rāvaṇa—dreadful as death itself—began to recount his lineage, strength, name, and deeds, seeking to instill fear in her heart.