Sītā, confronted by Rāvaṇa’s wicked intentions, spoke with unwavering resolve. She likened his desire to seize her to attempting impossible and perilous feats: snatching the fangs from a hungry lion, the swift enemy of deer, or grasping the jaws of a venomous serpent. She compared his ambition to lifting Mandara, the foremost mountain, with his bare hands, or drinking deadly poison and remaining unharmed. With biting words, Sītā declared that his pursuit of her was as reckless as rubbing one’s eye with a needle or licking a razor’s edge with the tongue—such was the madness of desiring Raghava’s beloved wife. She continued, saying that striving to possess her was like swimming across the ocean with a stone tied to the neck or attempting to seize the sun and moon with one’s hands. To violate Rāma’s beloved wife, she said, was to try to snatch blazing fire with a cloth, or to walk upon the tips of iron spears, for he sought a wife equal to Rāma. Sītā then drew a vivid distinction between Rāma and Rāvaṇa: 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 was the distance between Dasharatha’s son and Rāvaṇa. She further emphasized the difference: just as gold differs from lead and iron, sandalwood from water and mud, elephants from donkeys in the forest, so was Rāma unlike Rāvaṇa. Though Rāma stood radiant as the thousand-eyed Indra, bow and arrow in hand, Sītā declared that even though she had been taken from him, she would not succumb to old age—just as clarified butter, when swallowed by a fly, is not diminished. With pure intent, she spoke these words to the night-roaming demon, trembling with distress, 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, hoping to instill fear in her heart. Now begins the forty-eighth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Aranya Kāṇḍa. As Sītā finished speaking, Rāvaṇa’s anger flared. He furrowed his brow and replied with harsh words. “O woman of noble complexion, I am Rāvaṇa, the rival brother of Vaiśravaṇa, known as Daśagrīva, mighty in power. May you fare well. The gods, Gandharvas, spirits, birds, and serpents all flee from me in fear, just as all creatures flee from death. My brother Vaiśravaṇa, though born of another mother, was challenged by me out of anger; I confronted him in battle and conquered him. Terrified, he abandoned his splendid abode and now dwells on Kailāsa, riding his celestial vehicle. That splendid aerial chariot, Puṣpaka, which travels at will, was won by my valor, gentle one; with it, I traverse the sky. When I am angered, O daughter of Mithilā, even the gods led by Indra scatter in terror at the sight of my face. Wherever I stand, the wind blows hesitantly; the sun’s rays grow fierce, the moon’s rays become cool, all out of fear. Wherever I am present, trees stand still without shaking their leaves, and rivers become motionless. Beyond the ocean lies my splendid city, Laṅkā, filled with fierce rākṣasas, just as Amarāvatī is filled with immortals for Indra. That delightful city, encircled by a shining white wall, adorned with golden courtyards and gateways made of lapis lazuli, stands resplendent. It is crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, resounding with music, and decorated with gardens full of trees bearing every desired fruit. There, O Sītā, princess, you shall dwell with me; you will not remember the women of humankind. Enjoying both human and divine pleasures, O woman of radiant complexion, you will not remember Rāma, the mortal whose life has ended. King Dasharatha, lacking strength, sent his eldest son into the forest after installing his beloved son in the kingdom. What will you accomplish with Rāma, who has lost his kingdom and his mind, living as an ascetic? Cherish the lord of the rakshasas who has come to you of his own accord; do not reject one pierced by the arrows of love. If you reject me, O timid one, you will later regret it, just as Urvashi did after striking Pururavas with her foot. Rāma is not equal to me in battle, not even to my finger. O woman of splendid complexion, enjoy what has come to you by your fortune.” Thus addressed, Vaidehi’s eyes reddened in anger. In private, she spoke harsh words to the lord of the rakshasas. “How can you, desiring to do evil, claim to be the brother of Kubera, the god honored by all the gods? Certainly, all the rakshasas will perish, O Rāvaṇa, for whom you, harsh and ill-minded, uncontrolled in your senses, are king. Indra may live after abducting his wife Shachi, but having brought me, Rāma’s wife, you will not remain unharmed. One may live long after violating Shachi, the matchless beauty of the thunder-wielder, but after violating a woman like me, O rakshasa, even if you drink nectar, you will not find release.” Now begins the forty-ninth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Aranya Kanda. Hearing Sītā’s words, the mighty ten-headed Rāvaṇa struck his hand with his hand and made his form immense. He addressed Maithili, skilled in speech: “I think my strength and valor are not heard by you, who are not mad. I could lift the earth with my arms while standing in the sky, drink up the ocean, and slay Death in battle.