The mighty king of birds, radiant and powerful, confronted Rāvaṇa as he sped through the sky with Sītā. Rāvaṇa unleashed a blazing shower of arrows, fiery and relentless, but the king of birds shook them off with the force of his wings, scattering the deadly missiles. In the heat of battle, the valiant bird struck down Rāvaṇa’s swift and divine horses, their golden armor gleaming, their faces fierce as demons. With another mighty assault, he shattered the magnificent chariot—adorned with three banners, ablaze like fire, and sparkling with jeweled steps—leaving it broken and useless. Not stopping there, the king of birds swiftly knocked down the royal umbrella, which shone like the full moon, along with the fans and the rakṣasas who bore them. With his powerful beak, he struck at Rāvaṇa’s charioteer, tearing off his splendid head in a single, terrible blow. Now bereft of his bow, his chariot destroyed, his horses and charioteer slain, Rāvaṇa fell to the ground, still clutching Vaidehī in his arms. Witnessing Rāvaṇa’s fall, his vehicle in ruins, the assembled beings in the heavens praised the king of vultures, exclaiming, “Well done! Well done!” But Rāvaṇa, seeing his adversary exhausted and aged, felt a surge of delight. Seizing Maithilī, he sprang up once more, and, placing Janaka’s daughter upon his lap, prepared to depart with only his sword remaining—all other means lost and destroyed. Yet the king of vultures, Jatāyu, rose up again, rushing to block Rāvaṇa’s path. With great brilliance, he spoke: “Rāvaṇa, of little understanding, you are taking Rāma’s wife—he whose arrows strike like thunderbolts—toward the destruction of the rākṣasas. With your friends, relatives, ministers, army, and attendants, you drink poison as if it were water, driven by your own thirst. Those who do not know the consequences of their actions, lacking discernment, quickly perish, and so will you. Bound by the noose of time, where can you flee? Like a fish caught by bait, you are seized for destruction. “O Rāvaṇa, the two sons of Raghu, descended from Kakutstha, will never tolerate your assault or the violation of this hermitage. The act you have committed is cowardly and condemned by the world; it is the way of thieves, not the path of heroes. If you are truly a warrior, then stand and fight! Remain for a moment, Rāvaṇa, and you will lie slain on the earth, just as your brother Khara did. At the time of death, whatever unrighteous act a man undertakes leads only to his own destruction—and such a deed you have now chosen. Who indeed would perform an act whose consequence is sin? Not even the lord of the world, the self-born divine one, would do so.” Having spoken these auspicious words, the mighty Jatāyu hurled himself upon the back of the ten-headed Rāvaṇa. Seizing him, Jatāyu tore at him from all sides with his sharp claws, like a skilled elephant-rider attacking a wild elephant. Pressing his beak down upon Rāvaṇa’s back, he ripped at him with his claws, and, using his wings and beak, began to tear out his hair. Tormented again and again by the king of vultures, Rāvaṇa’s lips quivered with rage and his whole body trembled. Holding Vaidehī on his left thigh, Rāvaṇa struck the suffering Jatāyu with his palm, his mind consumed by anger. But Jatāyu, lord of birds, evaded the blow and, with his beak, tore off ten of Rāvaṇa’s left arms. Yet, as soon as they were severed, the arms regrew instantly, blazing with streams of poison, like serpents emerging from an anthill. Now filled with fury, the mighty ten-headed Rāvaṇa cast Sītā aside and struck the king of vultures with his fists and feet. For a brief but fierce moment, a great battle raged between the chief of the rākṣasas and the foremost of birds, both of immense strength. Struggling for Rāma’s sake, Rāvaṇa drew his sword and, in a terrible deed, cut off Jatāyu’s wings, feet, and sides. With his wings severed by the rākṣasa’s fierce act, the great vulture, his life nearly spent, fell suddenly to the earth. Seeing Jatāyu fallen, drenched in blood, Vaidehī, distraught, rushed to him as one would to a beloved kinsman. The lord of Laṅkā gazed upon Jatāyu lying on the earth, resembling a dark rain cloud, his chest pale, his noble strength stilled—like a great fire extinguished at the end of a forest blaze. Sītā, her face radiant as the moon, once more embraced the fallen bird, subdued by Rāvaṇa’s might, and wept, the daughter of Janaka overcome with sorrow. Now begins the fifty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Sītā, foremost among women, beheld the king of vultures slain by Rāvaṇa and was overwhelmed by grief. “Omens, signs, dreams, and the cries of birds indeed foretell the joys and sorrows destined for men,” she lamented. “Surely, Rāma, you do not know of your great misfortune; O descendant of Kakutstha, even the beasts and birds are running to save me. This bird, moved by compassion, came here to rescue me, but now lies slain on the ground because of my misfortune.” In her terror, the noble lady called out, “Save me now, O Kakutstha, O Lakṣmaṇa!” hoping her cries might reach their ears. Adorned with disheveled garlands and ornaments, she wailed in despair, like one abandoned. At that moment, Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, rushed once more toward Vaidehī.