As Sītā finished speaking, Rāvaṇa’s anger flared. His brow furrowed deeply, and he addressed her in harsh, thunderous tones. “O woman of noble complexion,” he declared, “know me as Rāvaṇa, the rival brother of Vaiśravaṇa, famed as Daśagrīva and mighty in power. May you fare well, but heed my words. The gods, Gandharvas, spirits, birds, and serpents—all flee from me in terror, just as all beings flee from death itself. “My brother Vaiśravaṇa, though born of a different mother, was once challenged by me. Out of anger, I confronted him in battle and emerged victorious. Stricken with fear, he abandoned his own splendid abode and now dwells atop the glorious mountain Kailāsa, journeying in his celestial vehicle. That wondrous aerial chariot, Puṣpaka, which moves at its master’s will, I seized by my own valor. With it, I roam the sky as I please. “O daughter of Mithilā, when I am angered, even the gods with Indra at their head scatter at the mere sight of my face. Wherever I stand, the wind hesitates to blow, the sun’s rays grow fierce, and the moon’s rays turn cool, all out of fear. When I move, the trees stand motionless, their leaves still, and the rivers cease to flow. “Beyond the ocean lies my magnificent city, Laṅkā, filled with fierce rākṣasas, just as Amarāvatī is filled with immortals for Indra. That delightful city, encircled by a gleaming white wall, adorned with golden courtyards and gateways of lapis lazuli, shines resplendently. Elephants, horses, and chariots crowd its streets, music fills the air, and gardens overflow with every kind of fruit. “There, O Sītā, princess, you shall dwell with me. You will not even remember the women of humankind, so thoughtful are you. Enjoying both human and divine pleasures, you will not recall Rāma, the mortal whose life has ended. King Daśaratha, having installed his beloved son in the kingdom, sent his eldest son into the forest, now lacking strength. What can you hope to achieve with Rāma, who has lost his kingdom and his mind, living as an ascetic? “Embrace me, the lord of the rākṣasas, who has come to you willingly. Do not reject one pierced by the arrows of love. If you turn me away, O timid one, you will regret it, just as Urvaśī did after striking Purūravas with her foot. Rāma cannot equal me in battle—not even to my finger. O woman of radiant complexion, enjoy what fate has brought to you.” Hearing these words, Vaidehī’s eyes reddened with anger. She replied fiercely to the lord of the rākṣasas, though they were alone. “How can you, bent on evil, claim to be the brother of Kubera, the god honored by all the gods? Surely all the rākṣasas will perish, for you, harsh and ill-minded, uncontrolled in your senses, are their king. Perhaps Indra might live after abducting his wife Śacī, but having taken me, Rāma’s wife, you will not escape unharmed. One might survive after wronging Śacī, the matchless beauty of the thunder-wielder, but after violating a woman like me, O rākṣasa, not even drinking nectar will save you.” At these words, Rāvaṇa, the mighty ten-headed one, struck his own hand in fury and grew to an immense, fearsome form. He spoke again to Maithilī, his voice edged with scorn. “Clearly, my strength and valor are unknown to 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 itself in battle. I could pierce the sun with sharp arrows and split the earth asunder. Witness me, O deluded one, for I can assume any form I desire.” As he spoke, Rāvaṇa’s anger blazed. His eyes became bloodshot, and he cast aside his gentle guise, revealing a terrifying form—like Time itself, the brother of Kubera. His eyes burned red as blood, he was adorned with heated golden ornaments, and his wrath made him resemble a dark thundercloud. The ten-headed, twenty-armed night-wanderer stood revealed, abandoning the disguise of an ascetic. Now, in his own dreadful form, clad in blood-red garments, he gazed at the jewel among women, Maithilī. Rāvaṇa addressed her again, her dark hair framing her radiant face, adorned with fine garments and ornaments. “If you desire a husband renowned in all three worlds, O slender-waisted one, take refuge in me. I am a worthy husband for you. Choose me for lasting companionship, gentle lady, for I will never harm you. Cast aside your human attachments and set your heart upon me. Forsake Rāma, who has lost his kingdom, failed in his aims, and whose life is but short. By what virtues are you so attached, O deluded one who thinks herself wise, to the man who, at a woman’s word, abandoned his kingdom and his friends?