Rāvaṇa, filled with pride and arrogance, addressed Sītā with scorn, declaring, “Rāma, that mere mortal, is not my equal in battle—not even to the measure of my little finger. O woman of lovely complexion, accept what fate has brought you and enjoy your fortune.” But Vaidehī, her eyes reddened with anger, was unmoved by his words. In private, she responded with harshness to the lord of the rākṣasas. “How can you, who pursue evil, claim to be the brother of Kubera, the god honored by all the gods? Surely, all the rākṣasas will meet their end, for you, cruel, ill-minded, and unrestrained, are their king. Perhaps Indra could live after abducting his wife Śacī, but having taken me, Rāma’s wife, you will not escape unharmed. One may live long after wronging Śacī, the peerless consort of the thunder-wielder, but after violating a woman like me, O rākṣasa, even if you drink the nectar of immortality, you will not find release.” Now, hear the continuation of this tale in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Aranya Kanda. Hearing Sītā’s fierce words, the mighty ten-headed Rāvaṇa struck his hands together and instantly made his form immense. He addressed Maithilī, skilled in speech, saying, “You are not mad, yet you must not have heard of my strength and valor. With my arms, I could lift the earth 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 deluded one, behold me—I can assume any form at will.” As Rāvaṇa spoke, radiant as a peacock but burning with anger, his eyes became bloodshot. Casting aside all gentleness, he took on a fierce and terrifying form, resembling Time itself, the brother of Kubera. His eyes blazed red as blood, golden ornaments blazed upon him, and wrath possessed him like a dark thundercloud. The ten-headed, twenty-armed night-wanderer revealed his true, gigantic shape, discarding the disguise of an ascetic. Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, now stood before Sītā in his own fearsome appearance, clad in blood-red garments, gazing intently at the jewel among women, Maithilī. He spoke to her, 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 worthy of you. Choose me for lasting companionship; I am praiseworthy and will never harm you. Abandon your human attachment and turn your heart to me. Forsake Rāma, who has lost his kingdom, failed in his aims, and whose life is limited. By what virtues are you attached, O deluded one, to the man who, at a woman’s word, abandoned his kingdom and friends? He now dwells in this forest, haunted by beasts, his mind misguided.” Thus Rāvaṇa spoke to Maithilī, who was gentle and worthy of affection. But driven 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, he seized her thighs. Seeing him—mountain-like, with sharp fangs and mighty arms—the forest deities, terrified as if facing death itself, fled in fear. Then, Rāvaṇa’s wondrous, magical chariot appeared, shining like gold, drawn by mules and resounding with a harsh, thunderous noise. With a roar and harsh words, Rāvaṇa threatened Sītā, lifted Vaidehī onto his lap, and set her upon the chariot. Seized by Rāvaṇa, the illustrious Sītā cried out in anguish, calling for Rāma, who was far away in the forest. Rāvaṇa, driven by desire, carried off the struggling Sītā, as if she were the wife of the serpent king. As she was borne through the sky by the king of rākṣasas, Sītā cried out in distress, her mind distraught, like a maddened, suffering woman. “O Lakṣmaṇa, mighty-armed, who brings joy to your elders’ hearts, you do not know that I am being carried off by a shape-shifting rākṣasa! Rāghava, you who for the sake of righteousness abandoned life, happiness, and wealth, do not see me being taken away unrighteously! Are you not the chastiser of the unruly, O scorcher of foes? Why do you not punish such wickedness, why do you not chastise Rāvaṇa? The fruit of evil deeds is not seen at once; time also plays its part, as with the ripening of crops. You, Rāvaṇa, have committed this act, your mind clouded by fate; now suffer a dreadful calamity at Rāma’s hands, which will bring about your end. Now, perhaps Kaikeyī and her kin may rejoice, for the virtuous wife of that righteous, renowned man is being carried away.” In her despair, Sītā addressed the blooming Karnikāra trees in Janasthāna: “Quickly tell Rāma that Rāvaṇa is abducting Sītā.” She saluted the Godāvarī river, resounding with flocks of swans and cranes: “Quickly tell Rāma that Rāvaṇa is abducting Sītā.” To the deities dwelling in the forest among the various trees, she bowed: “Announce to my husband that I have been carried away.” And to all the creatures there—herds of deer, flocks of birds—she cried, “I seek refuge in all of you.” Thus, Sītā, seized by Rāvaṇa, cried out in anguish to the world, her heart yearning for Rāma’s rescue.