As Ravana soared through the sky with Sita, her pure and radiant face, resting upon his lap, lost its luster without Rama—like a lotus severed from its stem. Her lovely forehead and beautiful hairline, her spotless face resembling the heart of a lotus, shone forth like the moon just emerging from behind a dark blue cloud. Even as she was carried away, her face—adorned with shining, white teeth and lovely eyes—remained luminous, though sorrow shadowed her beauty. Tears stained her cheeks, and though she wiped them away, her charming face, with its fine nose and lovely red lips, glowed in the sky with a golden radiance, as if the moon itself wept. Yet, shaken by the king of the Rakshasas, her beauty was dimmed without Rama, just as the moon loses its brilliance in the brightness of day. Sita, golden-hued Maithili, clung helplessly to the dark-bodied Ravana. The contrast between them was striking—she shone like a golden girdle wrapped around a blue elephant. Adorned with blazing ornaments, the daughter of Janaka, radiant as a lotus, seemed to enter Ravana’s grasp as lightning enters a cloud. The sound of her jingling ornaments made the lord of the Rakshasas appear all the more like a pure, thundering raincloud. As Ravana sped through the heavens, a shower of flowers fell from Sita’s head, scattering to the earth below. The wind of their flight scattered these blossoms in all directions, yet many circled back and rained down upon the ten-headed one, as if a garland of stars had descended upon the lofty mountain Meru. From Sita’s delicate foot, an anklet adorned with jewels slipped off and fell to the ground, shining like a circle of lightning. Her limbs, brushed and reddened by the tender shoots of trees, only enhanced the splendor of the dark-bodied Ravana, like a golden girdle on an elephant within its enclosure. Thus, Ravana, brother of Vaiśravaṇa, entered the sky, seizing Sita, who radiated with her own light like a blazing meteor streaking through the heavens. Her ornaments, glowing like fire, fell with a clatter, breaking apart as faded stars tumble from the sky. Even her necklace, radiant as the lord of stars, slipped from her breast and, as it fell, sparkled like the sacred Ganges descending from the heavens. All around, the trees trembled at their tips, shaken by ominous winds and filled with flocks of frightened birds, as if the very forest cried out, “Do not fear!” The lotuses, their blossoms destroyed, and the fish and water creatures, frightened, seemed to mourn for Maithili, their dear friend, now bereft of hope. Lions, tigers, deer, and birds gathered from all sides, running in anger after Sita’s fleeing shadow. The mountains themselves, with streams as mouths and peaks raised like arms, seemed to cry out as she was carried away. Even the sun, afflicted by sorrow, lost its brilliance and appeared in the sky with a pale, wan disk. 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, in groups, lamented together—terrified, their faces downcast, and the young animals cried out in distress. The forest deities, their bodies trembling, gazed with anxious, bewildered eyes upon the scene. As Sita cried out loudly, her sweet voice calling for “Rama! Lakshmana!” in her suffering, Ravana seized her, glancing repeatedly at the earth below. Her hair was disheveled, her ornaments disturbed, and all this he did for his own destruction. Deprived of her kin, the beautiful Maithili, her pure smile faded, searched in vain for both Raghava and Lakshmana, her face pale and oppressed by fear. Now, listen to the fifty-third chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. As Ravana flew through the sky, Maithili, the daughter of Janaka, was seized by deep distress, her heart agitated and gripped by great fear. Her eyes, reddened by anger and weeping, Sita—being carried away—spoke in sorrow to the terrifying-eyed lord of the Rakshasas: “Do you feel no shame, vile one, for this act, Ravana? You abduct me, knowing I am alone, and flee like a thief! Surely it was you, wicked coward, who, desiring to seize me, lured my husband away by deceit, taking the form of a deer. Even he who rose to protect me—the ancient king of vultures, my father-in-law’s friend—has now been struck down. Indeed, your strength is truly shown, lowest of Rakshasas, for though you proclaimed your name, you did not defeat me in battle. How do you not feel shame after committing such a despicable deed—abducting another man’s wife in secret, wretch? Men everywhere will speak of your act as contemptible—cruel and unrighteous, though you boast of your heroism. Fie upon the valor and character you claim! Such conduct brings disgrace upon your lineage—shame on you! What can I do, since you flee so swiftly? Stay even for a moment—you would not return alive. Not even with your army could you survive a moment once within sight of those two princes. You could never endure the touch of their arrows, just as a bird cannot bear the touch of a blazing forest fire.” Thus, in her anguish and fury, Sita rebuked Ravana as he carried her away through the sky, her heart ever yearning for Rama and Lakshmana.