As Ravana swept through the sky with Sītā in his grasp, the very air around him responded to his speed. Showers of flowers, scattered in all directions by the force of his flight, circled back and settled upon the ten-headed lord. Upon the brother of Vaiśravaṇa, a cascade of blossoms descended, pure and radiant, as if a garland of stars had gently fallen upon the lofty peak of Mount Meru. In the midst of this turmoil, an anklet adorned with shining jewels slipped from Vaidehī’s—Sītā’s—foot, glimmering like a loop of lightning as it fell to the earth below. Her limbs, stained red by the tender shoots of the forest trees, only served to enhance the dark splendor of Ravana, much like a golden girdle accentuates the majesty of a great elephant within its enclosure. Ascending into the sky, Ravana carried off Sītā, who shone with her own inner brilliance—like a blazing meteor streaking across the heavens. As they soared, her ornaments, glowing like fire, fell to the ground with a clatter, breaking apart as faded stars drop from the night sky. From between her breasts, her radiant necklace slipped, shining like the river Ganges as it descends from the heavens. All around, the forest responded in anguish. Trees, their tips shaken by ominous winds and alive with flocks of startled birds, seemed to cry out, “Do not fear!” The lotuses, their blossoms destroyed, and the frightened fish and water creatures appeared to mourn for Maithilī, their beloved friend, who now seemed bereft of all hope. From every direction, lions, tigers, deer, and birds gathered and, in anger, chased after Sītā’s fleeting shadow. The mountains themselves, with streams for mouths and peaks lifted like arms, seemed to call out in protest as Sītā was carried away. Even the sun, afflicted and glorious, lost its brilliance and appeared pale, as though grieving for Vaidehī. In that place where Ravana abducted Sītā, Rāma’s beloved, righteousness, truth, integrity, and compassion vanished; all these virtues seemed absent. All the creatures of the forest, in groups, lamented together; terrified and with faces cast down, the young animals cried out in distress. The deities of the woods, their bodies trembling, gazed again and again with anxious, bewildered eyes. Seeing Sītā crying out, suffering and calling “Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa!” in her sweet voice, Ravana held her fast. She, glancing repeatedly at the earth, with her hair disheveled and her ornaments disturbed, was seized by the ten-headed one for his own destruction. Deprived of her kin, the beautiful, pure-smiling Maithilī looked desperately for Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa, her face pale and weighed down by fear. Now begins the fifty-third chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. As Ravana flew through the sky, Maithilī, the daughter of Janaka, was overwhelmed by distress, her heart agitated and seized by great fear. Her eyes, red with anger and tears, Sītā spoke in sorrow to the terrifying-eyed lord of the Rākṣasas as he bore her away. “Do you not feel shame for this act, Ravana? You abduct me, knowing I am alone, and flee like a thief—how vile! Surely it was you, evil-minded 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, that ancient king of vultures, my father-in-law’s friend, has now been struck down. “Indeed, your strength is truly seen, lowest of Rākṣasas, for though you boast of your name, you did not face me in battle. How do you not feel shame for such a despicable deed—abducting another man’s wife in secret, wretch? The world will speak of your act as contemptible—cruel and unrighteous—though you claim to be a hero. “Fie upon your valor and character! Such conduct brings disgrace to your lineage—shame on you. But what can I do, since you flee so swiftly? Stay even for a moment—you will not return alive. Not even with your army could you survive for a moment once within sight of those two princes. You could never endure the touch of their arrows, just as a bird cannot withstand the touch of a blazing forest fire. “Do what is truly good for yourself, Ravana—release me. My husband, enraged at my violation, together with his brother, will bring about your destruction. If you do not release me, he will ensure your ruin, for by this very resolve with which you seek to seize me by force, you will perish. “Your resolve, wretch, will prove fruitless, for I, not seeing my husband—who is equal to the gods—cannot long endure life under the power of an enemy. I cannot, under your control, sustain my life for long without my husband; surely you do not consider what is truly good or beneficial for yourself. Just as a man at the time of death pursues what is adverse, so too do all those about to die disregard what is truly good. “I see you here, already bound at the throat by the noose of death; and yet, in this perilous moment, you do not fear, night-wanderer. Clearly, you see trees made of gold, and the dreadful river Vaitarani, carrying streams of blood. You also see the terrifying forest of sword-bladed leaves, Ravana, with flowers of heated gold and coverings of finest beryl. You will see the sharp Salmali tree, studded with iron thorns; for having done such a deed to that great soul, you will not escape its consequences.” Thus, Sītā, radiant and steadfast even in her suffering, spoke words of truth and warning as she was carried away by the ten-headed Ravana, while the world and all its creatures mourned her abduction.