Wherever I go, wherever I am present, the very trees stand motionless, not a leaf quivering in my presence, and the rivers still their flowing waters. Beyond the vast ocean lies my magnificent city, Laṅkā, splendid and formidable, filled with fierce rākṣasas, just as Amarāvatī is filled with immortals for Indra. That delightful city, encircled by a radiant white wall and adorned with golden courtyards and gateways of brilliant lapis lazuli, stands resplendent for all to behold. Within its shining boundaries, elephants, horses, and chariots crowd the streets, the air resounds with the music of countless instruments, and gardens flourish, heavy with trees bearing every fruit one could desire. There, O Sītā, princess of Mithilā, you shall dwell with me. You will not remember the women of humankind, thoughtful one, for you will enjoy pleasures both human and divine, O woman of radiant complexion, and you will forget Rāma, the mortal whose life has ended. King Daśaratha, having installed his beloved son in the kingdom, sent his eldest son away into the forest, for he was bereft of strength. What will you accomplish, O wide-eyed one, with Rāma—who has lost his kingdom, lost his mind, and now lives as an ascetic? Cherish me, the lord of the rākṣasas, 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 regret it later, just as Urvaśī did after striking Purūravas with her foot. Rāma, that mortal, is not my equal in battle—not even to my finger, O woman of splendid complexion. Enjoy what has come to you by your fortune. Thus Ravana spoke, but Vaidehī—her eyes reddened in anger—answered him with harsh words, her voice steady though she was alone with the lord of the rākṣasas. “How can you, who desire evil, claim to be the brother of Kubera, the god honored by all the gods? Surely all the rākṣasas will perish, O Rāvaṇa, for whom you, harsh, ill-minded, and uncontrolled in your senses, are king. Indra might survive after abducting his wife Śacī, but since you have brought me, Rāma’s wife, you will not remain unharmed. One may live long after violating Śacī, the peerless beauty of the thunder-wielder, but after violating a woman like me, O rākṣasa, even if you drink nectar, you will not find release.” Now, hear the forty-ninth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Aranya Kanda. Hearing Sītā’s fearless words, the mighty ten-headed one struck his hand against his palm, his form swelling in anger. Again he addressed Maithilī, skilled in speech: “I think my strength and valor are not known 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’s surface. O mad one, witness my power: I can assume any form at will.” As Rāvaṇa, radiant as a peacock, spoke thus, his eyes blazed red with fury. At once, Rāvaṇa cast aside his gentle appearance and revealed a fierce and terrible form, resembling Time itself, the destroyer, and brother of Kubera. His eyes, bloodshot, blazed; heated golden ornaments adorned his massive frame. Possessed by great wrath, he resembled a dark thundercloud. The ten-headed, twenty-armed night-wanderer revealed his true, immense form, casting aside his disguise as an ascetic. He stood before Sītā, clad in blood-red garments, gazing at the jewel among women. He spoke to Maithilī, her dark hair framing her face, her beauty radiant as the sun, adorned with fine garments and ornaments: “If you desire a husband renowned in all three worlds, O slender-waisted one, seek refuge in me. I am a worthy husband for you. Choose me for lasting companionship; gentle lady, I will never do you harm. Abandon your human attachment and turn your heart toward me. Forsake Rāma, who has lost his kingdom, failed in his aims, and whose life is now limited. By what virtues are you attached, O deluded one who thinks herself wise, to the man who, at a woman’s word, abandoned his kingdom and friends? He dwells in this forest, haunted by beasts, his mind misguided.” Thus Rāvaṇa spoke to Maithilī, who was gentle in speech and worthy of affection. Then, overcome by desire, the wicked-hearted rākṣasa approached and seized Sītā, as the moon seizes Rohiṇī in the sky. With his left hand he grasped Sītā, lotus-eyed, by her hair, and with his right hand he seized her thighs. Seeing him—mountain-like, with sharp fangs and mighty arms—the deities of the forest, terrified as if facing death itself, fled in fear. Suddenly, Rāvaṇa’s wondrous, magical chariot appeared, shining like gold, drawn by mules and resounding with a harsh, thunderous noise. With a great roar and harsh words, he threatened her, took Vaidehī onto his lap, and set her upon the chariot. Seized by Rāvaṇa, the illustrious Sītā cried out in anguish, calling desperately for Rāma, who was far away in the forest. Driven by desire, Rāvaṇa carried off the struggling Sītā, as if she were the wife of the serpent king. As she was borne away through the sky by the king of the rākṣasas, Sītā cried out loudly, her mind distraught, her voice echoing like that of a suffering, maddened woman.