Rāvaṇa, blinded by his own arrogance and lacking true understanding, seized Sītā, the wife of Rāma—he whose arrows strike with the force of thunderbolts. In doing so, Rāvaṇa brought upon himself and his race of rākṣasas the certainty of utter destruction. Surrounded by friends, relatives, ministers, armies, and attendants, he acted as one who drinks poison eagerly, mistaking it for water, driven by an insatiable thirst for ruin. Such is the fate of those who, lacking wisdom and discernment, fail to foresee the consequences of their actions. Swiftly do they perish, and so too would Rāvaṇa. Bound tightly by the relentless noose of time, he could not escape his destiny—like a fish lured by bait and caught, he was seized for his own end. “O Rāvaṇa,” Jatāyu declared, “the two sons of Raghu, descended from the great Kakutstha, will never tolerate your violence or the violation of this sacred hermitage. The deed you have committed is cowardly, condemned by the world, and fit only for thieves, not for true heroes. If you consider yourself a warrior, then stand and fight! Face me, even for a moment, as your brother Khara did, for soon you too will lie slain upon the earth.” He continued, “At the time of death, whatever unrighteous action a man undertakes leads only to his own destruction—and such a deed you have chosen. Who would knowingly act in a way that brings only sin? Not even the lord of the world, the self-born divine one, would do so.” Having spoken these words of warning and truth, the mighty Jatāyu, king of vultures, sprang upon the back of the ten-headed Rāvaṇa. With his powerful claws, he tore at Rāvaṇa from all sides, as a skilled elephant-rider might attack a fierce elephant. Pressing his beak against Rāvaṇa’s back, Jatāyu ripped at him with claw and wing, tearing out his hair and inflicting pain. Tormented again and again by the king of birds, Rāvaṇa’s lips quivered with rage and his body trembled. Holding Sītā on his left thigh, Rāvaṇa struck at Jatāyu with his palm, his mind consumed by anger. But the great bird, swift and strong, evaded the blow and, with his beak, tore off ten of Rāvaṇa’s left arms. Yet, as soon as they were severed, the arms grew back instantly, blazing with streams of poison, like serpents emerging from an anthill. Enraged, the mighty Rāvaṇa cast Sītā aside and attacked Jatāyu with his fists and feet. For a brief but fierce moment, a mighty battle raged between the chief of the rākṣasas and the foremost of birds, both possessed of great strength. Fighting for Rāma’s sake, Jatāyu struggled bravely, but Rāvaṇa drew his sword and, in a terrible deed, cut off the vulture’s wings, feet, and sides. With his wings severed, the great and noble Jatāyu, his life nearly spent, fell suddenly to the earth. Seeing the king of vultures, blood-soaked and fallen, Sītā, filled with distress, rushed to him as one would to a beloved kinsman. Rāvaṇa, lord of Laṅkā, beheld Jatāyu lying on the ground, resembling a dark rain cloud, his noble strength spent, still as a fire 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, daughter of Janaka. Now begins the fifty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Sītā, foremost among women, seeing the king of vultures slain by Rāvaṇa, was overcome by deep sorrow and lamented. “Surely,” she thought, “omens, signs, dreams, and the cries of birds reveal the joys and sorrows destined for men. Rāma, you do not know of your great misfortune. O descendant of Kakutstha, even the beasts and birds run for my sake.” “This noble bird, moved by compassion, came to save me, but now lies slain because of my misfortune,” she cried. In her terror, Sītā called out, “Save me now, O Kakutstha! O Lakṣmaṇa!” hoping that Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa might hear her desperate plea. Adorned with disheveled garlands and ornaments, Sītā wailed like one forsaken. But Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, rushed toward her. Like a vine clinging desperately to great trees, she embraced them, crying again and again, “Let me go! Let me go!” Yet Rāvaṇa seized her mercilessly. Crying out “Rāma! Rāma!” in the lonely forest, bereft of her beloved, Sītā was seized by her hair by that death-like figure, as if for the end of her life. In that moment, as Vaidehī was violated, the entire world—of moving and unmoving beings—fell into lawlessness, enveloped in dense darkness. The wind ceased to blow, and the sun lost its brilliance, as the gods, with their divine sight, beheld Sītā’s abduction. Then the illustrious Grandfather, Brahmā, declared, “The task is accomplished,” and all the great sages felt both delight and sorrow. The dwellers of the Dandaka forest, seeing Sītā being seized and realizing by chance that Rāvaṇa’s destruction was now certain, understood the unfolding destiny. But Rāvaṇa, the lord of the rākṣasas, took Sītā, who cried out “Rāma! Lakṣmaṇa!” and ascended into the sky. The princess, her limbs shining like heated gold and clad in yellow silk, shone like a flash of lightning in a dark cloud. With her yellow garment fluttering, Sītā made Rāvaṇa appear even more splendid, like a mountain ablaze with fire. As he carried her away, fragrant red lotus petals fell from that supremely auspicious lady, scattering upon Rāvaṇa as he sped through the sky.