Jatāyu, the noble king of vultures, swooped down upon Rāvaṇa with fierce resolve. With his sharp claws, he tore at the demon from all sides, much like a skilled elephant-rider battling a wild and dangerous elephant. Pressing his beak hard against Rāvaṇa’s back, Jatāyu ripped and scratched with his talons, wings, and beak, even pulling out tufts of the Rākṣasa’s hair. Tormented again and again by the mighty bird, Rāvaṇa’s lips quivered in fury, and his whole body trembled with rage. Still clutching Sītā, Vaidehī, on his left thigh, Rāvaṇa struck at Jatāyu with his palm, his mind clouded by anger. But the lord of birds evaded the blow and, with a powerful thrust of his beak, tore off ten of Rāvaṇa’s left arms. Yet, as soon as those arms were severed, new ones sprouted in their place, gleaming and writhing like poisonous serpents emerging from an anthill. Enraged beyond measure, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa cast Sītā aside and attacked Jatāyu with his fists and feet. A fierce battle erupted for a brief but intense moment between the chief of the Rākṣasas and the foremost of birds, both mighty and determined. Fighting for Rāma’s sake, Jatāyu struggled valiantly, but Rāvaṇa drew his sword and, in a terrible act, cut off Jatāyu’s wings, feet, and sides. With his wings severed by the Rākṣasa’s cruel blade, the great vulture, his life ebbing away, plummeted to the earth. Seeing Jatāyu fallen, drenched in blood, Sītā was overcome with grief and rushed to him as one would to a beloved kinsman. Rāvaṇa, lord of Laṅkā, beheld the stricken bird lying on the ground like a dark raincloud, his noble strength spent, still as a fire dying at the end of a forest blaze. Sītā, her face radiant like the moon, knelt beside the fallen Jatāyu. Overcome by sorrow and the might of Rāvaṇa, she embraced the valiant bird and wept bitterly, the daughter of Janaka mourning her protector. Thus begins the next sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the Araṇyakāṇḍa. Sītā, the noblest of women, gazed upon the slain king of vultures and was plunged into deep lamentation. She reflected on the omens, the dreams, the cries of birds and beasts—all signs that foretell the joys and sorrows destined for mortals. “Surely, Rāma, you do not know of this great misfortune,” she cried, “for even the animals and birds strive for my sake.” She mourned, “This bird, moved by compassion, came to save me, but now lies slain because of my ill fate.” In her terror, Sītā called out, “Save me now, O Kakutstha! O Lakṣmaṇa!” hoping that her cries might reach the ears of those dear to her. Adorned with garlands and ornaments now disheveled, Sītā wailed like one abandoned. In that moment, Rāvaṇa, lord of the Rākṣasas, rushed upon her. Like a vine clinging desperately to great trees, she embraced the trees around her, pleading again and again, “Let me go! Let me go!” But Rāvaṇa seized her forcefully. Alone in the forest, bereft of Rāma, Sītā cried out his name as Rāvaṇa, dreadful as death itself, grabbed her by the hair, as though her life were to end. At that moment, all the world—moving and unmoving—was thrown into chaos, shrouded in dense darkness. The wind ceased to blow, the sun lost its brilliance, and even the gods, watching with divine sight, saw Sītā being seized and were filled with sorrow. Then the illustrious Grandfather declared, “The task is accomplished,” and the great sages felt both joy and distress. The dwellers of the Dandaka forest, witnessing Sītā’s abduction, understood that Rāvaṇa’s destruction was now certain. But Rāvaṇa, heedless of all, carried Sītā away as she cried out “Rāma! Lakṣmaṇa!” and ascended into the sky. The princess, her limbs glowing like heated gold and clothed in yellow silk, shone like a flash of lightning among the clouds. Her golden garment fluttered in the wind, and Sītā, radiant, made Rāvaṇa shine even brighter, like a mountain set ablaze. As Rāvaṇa bore her away, fragrant red lotus petals fell from Sītā upon him, and her yellow silk garment, gleaming like gold, glowed in the sky like a red cloud lit by the sun. Yet her pure face, resting on Rāvaṇa’s lap as they flew, was pale and sorrowful without Rāma, like a lotus separated from its stem. Her lovely face, with its beautiful forehead and hairline, spotless as the heart of a lotus, seemed like the moon emerging from behind a blue cloud. Her radiant face, adorned with shining teeth and lovely eyes, rested on Rāvaṇa’s lap, glowing in the sky. Though she wept, wiping away her tears, her face—charming as the moon, with a fine nose and red lips—shone golden in the heavens. Yet, shaken by the king of the Rākṣasas, Sītā’s face did not truly shine without Rāma, just as the moon fades in the brightness of day. The golden-hued Maithili, clinging to the dark-bodied Rāvaṇa, shone like a golden girdle on a blue elephant. The daughter of Janaka, radiant as a lotus, entered into Rāvaṇa’s grasp like lightning entering a cloud, her ornaments blazing. By the sound of Vaidehī’s ornaments, the lord of the Rākṣasas appeared pure and dark, like a thundering raincloud. As Sītā was carried away, a shower of flowers fell from her head, cascading to the earth below, marking her sorrowful journey through the sky.