Rāvaṇa, lord of Laṅkā, gazed down upon the earth and beheld a striking sight: there lay Jaṭāyu, the mighty king of vultures, his form dark as a thundercloud, his noble chest pale and still, his great strength spent. He resembled a fire that, having consumed the forest, now lay quiet and extinguished. At this, Sītā, her face radiant as the full moon, rushed once more to embrace the fallen Jaṭāyu. The noble bird, who had tried valiantly to save her, now lay subdued by Rāvaṇa’s power. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, wept in grief. Now begins the fifty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇyakāṇḍa. Sītā, foremost among women, beheld the king of vultures slain by Rāvaṇa and was overcome with sorrow. “Surely,” she lamented, “omens, signs, dreams, and the cries of birds foreshadow the joys and sorrows that are destined for men.” Her heart heavy, she thought, “O Rāma, you do not know of your great misfortune. For my sake, even the beasts and birds of the forest have risen up.” She gazed at Jaṭāyu and cried, “This noble bird, moved by compassion, came to save me, but now lies dead because of my own misfortune.” In desperation, she called out, “Save me now, O Kakutstha! O Lakṣmaṇa!” Her voice trembled with terror, hoping that perhaps those dear to her might hear her cries. Disheveled, her garlands and ornaments awry, Sītā wailed like one abandoned. In that moment, Rāvaṇa, the lord of the Rākṣasas, rushed toward Vaidehī. Like a slender vine clinging to mighty trees, Sītā tried to embrace the trees, crying again and again, “Let me go! Let me go!” But the lord of the Rākṣasas seized her firmly. She cried out “Rāma! Rāma!” in the vast forest, her voice echoing through the trees, but bereft of her beloved, she was seized by her hair—an ominous figure grasping her as if to end her life. When Vaidehī was thus violated, the entire world of moving and unmoving beings seemed to lose all order, shrouded in dense darkness. In that dreadful moment, the wind ceased to blow, and the sun lost its brilliance. The gods, witnessing Sītā’s abduction with their divine sight, were deeply troubled. Then the illustrious Grandfather, Brahmā, declared, “The task is accomplished.” All the great sages, though delighted that destiny was unfolding, were also distressed by Sītā’s suffering. The dwellers of the Daṇḍaka forest, seeing Sītā seized, understood by chance that the destruction of Rāvaṇa was now certain. Meanwhile, Rāvaṇa, the lord of the Rākṣasas, carried her away, though she cried out desperately for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, and ascended into the sky. The princess, her limbs shining like heated gold and clad in yellow silk, gleamed like a flash of lightning in a dark cloud. Her fluttering yellow garment made Rāvaṇa shine even more, like a mountain ablaze with fire. From the supremely auspicious lady, fragrant red lotus petals fell upon Rāvaṇa as she was carried away. Her golden silk garment fluttered in the sky, glowing like the sun, like a red cloud illuminated by sunlight. Her pure, beautiful face, resting unwillingly on Rāvaṇa’s lap in the sky, did not shine without Rāma, like a lotus severed from its stem. Her lovely forehead, beautiful hairline, and spotless visage resembled the heart of a lotus, appearing like the moon emerging from behind a blue cloud. Her face, adorned with shining white teeth and lovely eyes, though radiant, was marked by sorrow as it rested on Rāvaṇa’s lap in the heavens. Her weeping face, with tears wiped away, charming as 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 face did not truly shine without Rāma, just as the moon does not shine 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 flashing. The sound of Vaidehī’s ornaments made the lord of the Rākṣasas appear pure and dark, like a thundering raincloud. As Sītā was carried away, a shower of flowers fell from her head, raining down to the earth. Scattered everywhere by Rāvaṇa’s speed, the flowers circled back to the ten-headed one. A shower of blossoms descended upon the brother of Vaiśravaṇa, like a pure garland of stars upon the lofty mountain Meru. From Vaidehī’s foot, an anklet adorned with jewels, shining like a circle of lightning, slipped and dropped to the earth. Her limbs, reddened by the tender shoots of trees, enhanced the splendor of the dark-bodied lord of the Rākṣasas, like a golden girdle on an elephant in its enclosure. The brother of Vaiśravaṇa, soaring through the sky, carried Sītā, who shone with her own radiance like a great meteor blazing 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 heavens. The trees, their tips shaken by ominous winds and filled with flocks of various 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. The mountains, with streams as mouths and peaks raised like arms, seemed to cry out in protest as Sītā was carried away, bearing witness to her sorrow and the world’s distress.