When Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, saw the mighty Jaṭāyu fallen to the earth, his body drenched in blood, her heart was overcome with grief. She rushed to him as one would to a beloved kinsman, her sorrow pouring forth. Nearby, Rāvaṇa, lord of Laṅkā, beheld Jaṭāyu lying still upon the ground, his once-noble strength spent, his chest pale, his great form resembling a dark raincloud, now motionless like a fire burnt out at the end of a forest blaze. Sītā, her face radiant as the moon even in her distress, once more embraced the noble bird who had fallen, subdued by Rāvaṇa’s might. She wept bitterly, her tears flowing as she clung to the king of vultures, slain in her defense. Now begins the fifty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇyakāṇḍa. Sītā, foremost among women, gazed upon Jaṭāyu, slain by Rāvaṇa, and lamented in deep sorrow. She reflected upon the omens, signs, dreams, and the cries of birds, all of which foretell the joys and sorrows destined for humankind. “Surely, Rāma, you do not know of your great misfortune,” she cried. “O descendant of Kakutstha, even the beasts and birds run for my sake. This noble bird, out of compassion, came to save me, but now lies slain because of my misfortune.” In her terror and despair, Sītā called out, “Save me now, O Kakutstha! O Lakṣmaṇa!” Her voice, trembling and desperate, rang through the forest, hoping that someone, anyone, might hear. Adorned with garlands and ornaments now in disarray, Sītā wailed like one abandoned. At that moment, Rāvaṇa, lord of the Rākṣasas, rushed toward her. Like a vine clinging to mighty trees, she embraced those trees, crying again and again, “Let me go! Let me go!” But the lord of the Rākṣasas seized her. She cried out “Rāma! Rāma!” in the depths of the forest, bereft of her beloved, her voice echoing in despair. Rāvaṇa, grim as death, seized her by the hair, as though to end her very life. As Sītā was thus violated, the whole world—of moving and unmoving beings—seemed to become lawless, enveloped in dense darkness. The wind ceased to blow, and the sun lost its brilliance. The gods, beholding Sītā’s plight with their divine sight, were filled with sorrow. Then the illustrious Grandfather Brahmā declared, “The task is accomplished,” and all the great sages were both delighted and distressed, recognizing the turning of fate. Seeing Sītā thus seized, the dwellers of the Dandaka forest realized by chance that Rāvaṇa’s destruction was now certain. But Rāvaṇa, lord of the Rākṣasas, took Sītā, who cried out “Rāma! Lakṣmaṇa!” again and again, and ascended into the sky. The princess, her limbs shining like heated gold, clad in yellow silk, gleamed like a lightning flash within dark clouds. Her yellow garment fluttered as she was carried away, making Rāvaṇa appear even more resplendent, like a mountain ablaze with fire. From that supremely auspicious lady, fragrant red lotus petals fell upon Rāvaṇa. Her yellow silk garment, glowing like the sun, fluttered in the sky, shining like a red cloud lit by sunlight. Her pure face, resting on Rāvaṇa’s lap as they moved through the sky, did not shine without Rāma, like a lotus severed from its stem. Her lovely face, with a beautiful forehead and hairline, spotless and radiant as the heart of a lotus, appeared like the moon emerging from behind a blue cloud. Her face, adorned with shining white teeth and lovely eyes, though resting on Rāvaṇa’s lap, was still radiant. Her tears wiped away, her charming face—like the moon, with a fine nose and lovely red lips—shone in the sky with a golden glow. Yet, shaken by the king of the Rākṣasas, her golden-hued face did not shine without Rāma, like the moon in the day. That golden-hued Maithilī, clinging to the dark-bodied lord of the Rākṣasas, shone like a golden girdle on a blue elephant. The daughter of Janaka, radiant as a lotus, entered Rāvaṇa’s grasp like lightning entering a cloud, her blazing ornaments adorning her. The sound of her ornaments made the lord of the Rākṣasas appear pure and dark, like a thundering raincloud. As Sītā was carried away, a shower of flowers from her head rained down, scattering to the earth. The speed of Rāvaṇa scattered these flowers everywhere, but they circled back to the ten-headed one, descending upon him like a garland of stars upon the lofty mountain Meru. From Sītā’s foot, an anklet adorned with jewels fell, shining like a circle of lightning as it dropped to the earth. Her limbs, reddened by the tender shoots of trees, enhanced the splendor of the dark-bodied Rāvaṇa, like a golden girdle on an elephant in its enclosure. That brother of Vaiśravaṇa, ascending into the sky, seized Sītā, who shone with her own radiance like a blazing meteor in the heavens. Her ornaments, glowing like fire, fell to the ground with a clatter, breaking apart like faded stars falling from the sky. Her necklace, radiant as the lord of stars, slipped from between her breasts and, as it fell, shone like the Ganges descending from the sky. The trees, their tips shaken by ominous winds and filled with flocks of birds, seemed to cry out, “Do not fear!” The lotuses, their blossoms destroyed and the fish and water creatures frightened, seemed to mourn for Maithilī, their friend who had lost all hope. Then, lions, tigers, deer, and birds, gathering from all sides, ran after Sītā’s shadow in anger, stirred by the sorrow and injustice that had befallen her.