As Ravana soared through the sky with Sita, her yellow silk garment fluttered in the wind, gleaming like gold and shining with the radiance of the sun, much like a red cloud aglow in sunlight. Her pure and gentle face, now resting on Ravana’s lap as they moved through the heavens, lost its luster without Rama—like a lotus flower separated from its stem, its beauty diminished. Her lovely forehead and beautiful hairline, her face as spotless and radiant as the heart of a lotus, appeared like the moon emerging from behind a dark blue cloud. Adorned with shining, flawless white teeth and enchanting eyes, her face, though resting on Ravana’s lap, retained a certain brilliance. Yet, as she wept and wiped away her tears, her face—charming as the moon, with a fine nose and lovely red lips—shone with a golden glow in the sky. But that beautiful face, shaken by the king of the Rakshasas, did not truly shine without Rama, just as the moon is pale and dim in the brightness of day. The golden-hued Maithili, Sita, clung to the dark-bodied lord of the Rakshasas, and in that moment, she shone like a golden girdle wrapped around a blue elephant. The radiant daughter of Janaka, glowing like a lotus and adorned with blazing ornaments, entered Ravana’s grasp as lightning enters a cloud. The sound of her ornaments, ringing as she was carried away, made the lord of the Rakshasas appear all the more dark and formidable, like a thundering raincloud in the sky. As Sita was borne away, flowers from her head showered down, falling to the earth in a gentle rain. The speed of Ravana’s flight scattered these flowers in all directions, but they circled back toward the ten-headed one, as if drawn to him. The shower of flowers descended upon Ravana, brother of Vaishravana, like a pure garland of stars falling upon the lofty mountain Meru. From Sita’s foot, an anklet adorned with jewels slipped off, shining like a circle of lightning before it dropped to the earth below. Her limbs, reddened by the tender shoots of the trees they brushed, made the dark-bodied Rakshasa appear all the more splendid, like a golden girdle on an elephant in its enclosure. Ravana, the brother of Vaishravana, carried Sita through the sky. She shone with her own radiance, blazing like a great meteor streaking through the heavens. Her ornaments, glowing like fire, fell from her body with a clatter, breaking apart as they hit the ground, like faded stars falling from the sky. Her necklace, radiant as the lord of stars, slipped from her chest and, as it fell, sparkled like the Ganges descending from the heavens. Below, the trees, their tips shaken by ominous winds and filled with flocks of startled birds, seemed to cry out, “Do not fear!” The lotuses, their blossoms destroyed, and the fish and water creatures frightened, seemed to mourn for Maithili, their friend who had lost all hope. In the forest, lions, tigers, deer, and birds, gathering from all directions, ran after Sita’s shadow in anger and distress. The mountains, their streams like open mouths and their peaks raised like arms, seemed to call out as Sita was carried away. Even the sun, afflicted by what he saw, lost his brilliance and appeared pale and dim. Where Ravana abducted Sita, Rama’s beloved Vaidehi, there was no righteousness, no truth, no integrity, and no compassion. All the beings of the forest, gathered in groups, lamented her fate. Terrified, the young animals cried with downcast faces. The forest deities, their bodies trembling, gazed anxiously and bewildered at the scene before them. Sita, crying out loudly in her sweet voice for Rama and Lakshmana, suffered greatly as she was carried away. Ravana, the ten-headed one, seized Vaidehi, who glanced repeatedly at the earth below, her hair disheveled and her ornaments in disarray—an act that would lead to his own destruction. Beautiful Maithili, pure and gentle, deprived of her kin, searched desperately for Rama and Lakshmana, her face pale and oppressed by fear. Now begins the fifty-third chapter of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda. As she saw herself being carried away through the sky, Maithili, the daughter of Janaka, was overwhelmed with distress, her heart gripped by great fear and agitation. Her eyes, red from weeping and anger, Sita spoke with sorrow to the terrifying-eyed lord of the Rakshasas: “Do you not feel shame, vile one, for this act, Ravana? You abduct me, knowing I am alone, and flee like a thief. Surely it was you, evil-minded coward, who, desiring to steal me away, led my husband from my side by taking the form of a deer. Even the noble king of vultures, my father-in-law’s friend, who rose to protect me, has now been struck down by you. Indeed, your strength is truly seen, lowest of Rakshasas, for though you boldly proclaimed your name, you did not dare defeat me in battle. How do you not feel shame for such a despicable deed—abducting another man’s wife in secret, wretch that you are? The men of the world will speak of your act as contemptible—cruel and unrighteous—no matter how you boast of your heroism. Fie upon the valor and character you claim! Such conduct brings disgrace to your lineage—shame on you. What can be done, since you flee so swiftly? Stay even for a moment—you will not return alive. Not even with your entire army could you survive for a moment, once those two princes lay eyes upon you.” Thus, Sita, steadfast and sorrowful, spoke her heart as she was carried away, her love and faith unshaken even in the hands of her abductor.