When Vaidehī, the noble Sītā, was seized and violated by Rāvaṇa, a shadow of lawlessness fell upon the entire world, both the moving and the unmoving. Darkness, dense and impenetrable, enveloped all creation. The wind itself ceased to blow, and the sun lost its brilliant radiance, as the gods, with their divine sight, beheld the dreadful scene of Sītā’s abduction. At that moment, the illustrious Grandfather Brahmā declared, “The task is accomplished.” The assembled great sages felt a mingling of joy and sorrow—delighted by the certainty of Rāvaṇa’s impending destruction, and yet deeply distressed by Sītā’s suffering. The dwellers of the Dandaka forest, too, understood what had transpired: by this chance, the ruin of the demon king was now assured. Meanwhile, Rāvaṇa, lord of the Rākṣasas, took Sītā—who cried out the names of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa in her anguish—and soared into the sky. The princess, her limbs glowing like burnished gold and clothed in yellow silk, shone amidst the clouds like a flash of lightning. As her golden garment fluttered in the wind, Sītā’s beauty made even Rāvaṇa appear more radiant, as if a blazing fire adorned a mountain. From that supremely auspicious lady, fragrant red lotus petals fell upon Rāvaṇa, and her silk garment, gleaming like the sun, fluttered in the sky like a red cloud touched by sunlight. Yet her pure face, resting upon Rāvaṇa’s lap as they flew, was bereft of its usual luster without Rāma beside her—like a lotus separated from its stem. Her lovely face, with its beautiful forehead, graceful hairline, and spotless radiance, resembled the moon emerging from behind a blue cloud. Adorned with shining white teeth and enchanting eyes, her countenance glowed even as she wept, her tears wiped away, her lips red and her nose fine—her golden face shining in the sky like the moon itself. But that face, though beautiful and shaken by the king of the Rākṣasas, did not possess its full brilliance without Rāma, just as the moon does not shine in the day. The golden-hued Maithilī, clinging to the dark-bodied Rāvaṇa, looked like a golden girdle on a blue elephant. She, radiant as a lotus, entered Rāvaṇa’s grasp like lightning entering a cloud, her blazing ornaments adorning her. The sound of Sītā’s ornaments filled the air, making the lord of the Rākṣasas seem pure and dark, like a thundercloud rumbling with rain. As she was carried away, flowers fell from her head in a fragrant shower, scattering to the earth below. Ravana’s speed caused these blossoms to whirl about him, circling back again and again to the ten-headed one like a garland of stars descending upon the mighty mountain Meru. From Sītā’s foot, an anklet studded with jewels slipped off, shining like a ring of lightning as it dropped to the ground. Her limbs, reddened by the tender shoots of the trees, only heightened the splendor of the dark-bodied demon, like a golden girdle adorning an elephant in its enclosure. Rāvaṇa, the brother of Vaiśravaṇa, soared through the sky, seizing Sītā, who shone with her own radiance like a blazing meteor. Her ornaments, glowing like fire, fell to the earth with a clatter, breaking apart like faded stars falling from the heavens. A radiant necklace, shining like the lord of the stars, slipped from between her breasts and, as it fell, gleamed like the sacred Ganges descending from the sky. The trees below, their tips shaken by ominous winds and filled with flocks of agitated birds, seemed to call out in compassion, “Do not fear!” The lotuses, their blossoms destroyed, and the frightened fish and water creatures appeared to mourn for Maithilī, their friend who had lost all hope. Lions, tigers, deer, and birds, gathering from all directions, ran after Sītā’s shadow in anger. The mountains, with streams for mouths and peaks raised like arms, seemed to cry out as she was carried away. Witnessing this, the sun himself, afflicted and glorious, lost his brilliance and appeared with a pale and wan disk. In that place where Rāvaṇa abducted Sītā—the beloved of Rāma—there was no righteousness, no truth, no integrity, and no compassion remaining. All the beings of the world, gathered in groups, lamented her fate; terrified, with downcast faces, even the young animals cried. The deities of the forest, their bodies trembling, gazed again and again with anxious, bewildered eyes. Seeing Sītā cry out in her sweet voice, calling “Rāma! Lakṣmaṇa!” in her suffering, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa seized her, glancing repeatedly at the earth, her hair disheveled and her ornaments disturbed—a deed that would bring about his own destruction. Deprived of her kin, the beautiful and pure-smiling Maithilī looked for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, her face pale and oppressed by the weight of fear. Now, listen to the fifty-third chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇyakāṇḍa. As she beheld him flying through the sky, Maithilī, the daughter of Janaka, was overcome with distress, her heart gripped by great fear and agitation. Her eyes, reddened by both anger and weeping, Sītā spoke with sorrow to the terrifying-eyed lord of the Rākṣasas: “Do you not feel shame, vile one, for this act, O Rāvaṇa, as you abduct me, knowing I am alone, and flee like a thief?