As Rāvaṇa carried Sītā away, a jeweled anklet slipped from Vaidehī’s delicate foot and fell to the earth, shining like a ring of lightning. Her limbs, brushed by the tender shoots of the trees, glowed with a reddish hue, and her presence, radiant and golden, seemed to enhance the splendor of the dark-bodied lord of the Rākṣasas—just as a golden girdle adorns a mighty elephant within its enclosure. Rāvaṇa, the brother of Vaiśravaṇa, soared into the sky, seizing Sītā, whose own brilliance shone forth like a blazing meteor streaking across the heavens. As he ascended, her ornaments, fiery and luminous, tumbled down with a clatter, scattering like faded stars breaking from the night sky. Her necklace, radiant as the moon, slipped from her chest and, as it fell, sparkled like the descent of the sacred Ganges from the heavens. All around, the trees, their tips shaken by ominous winds and crowded with flocks of birds, seemed to cry out in unison, “Do not fear!” The lotuses, their blossoms destroyed, and the fish and water creatures frightened, appeared to mourn for Maithilī, their beloved friend now bereft of hope. Lions, tigers, deer, and birds, gathering from every direction, chased after Sītā’s shadow in anger, as if protesting her abduction. The mountains, their streams gaping like mouths and peaks raised like arms, seemed to cry out as Sītā was swept away. Even the sun, witnessing Vaidehī’s abduction, lost its brilliance, its disk pale and diminished in sorrow. In the place where Rāvaṇa was abducting Rāma’s Vaidehī, righteousness, truth, integrity, and compassion vanished; only despair remained. All beings in the forest lamented together, their faces downcast, the young animals crying out in fear. The forest deities, their bodies trembling, watched anxiously, their eyes bewildered and restless. Seeing Sītā suffering, crying out loudly for “Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa” in her sweet voice, all were filled with anguish. Rāvaṇa, the ten-headed one, glanced repeatedly at the earth as he seized Vaidehī, her hair disheveled and her ornaments disturbed, acting for his own destruction. Maithilī, beautiful and pure-smiling, deprived of her kin, searched desperately for Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa, her face pale and oppressed by fear. Now, listen to the fifty-third chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Seeing Rāvaṇa flying through the sky, Maithilī, the daughter of Janaka, was deeply distressed, exceedingly agitated, and gripped by great fear. Her eyes, reddened by anger and tears, Sītā spoke with sorrow to the terrifying-eyed lord of the Rākṣasas: “Do you not feel shame, vile one, for this act, Rāvaṇa, as you abduct me, knowing I am alone, and flee like a thief? Surely it was you, evil-minded coward, who deceived my husband with the form of a deer, wishing to abduct me. Even the noble king of vultures, my father-in-law’s friend, who rose to protect me, has now been struck down. Indeed, your strength is truly shown, lowest of Rākṣasas, 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 in the world will speak of your act as contemptible—cruel and most unrighteous, though you boast of your heroism. Fie upon the valor and character you claim; your conduct brings disgrace to your lineage—shame upon you. What can be done, 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 cannot endure the touch of their arrows, just as a bird cannot bear the touch of a blazing forest fire. Do what is truly good for yourself, Rāvaṇa—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 the very resolve with which you seek to seize me by force will bring about your end. 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, already bound at the throat by the noose of death; 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, Rāvaṇa, 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. You will not be able to endure for long, as if having drunk poison, pitiless one; you are bound by the noose of Time, Rāvaṇa, which cannot be resisted. Where will you go to find peace, apart from my husband, the great soul, even for the blink of an eye, without your brother in battle?” Thus Sītā, though gripped by terror and anguish, spoke boldly and fiercely, her words filled with sorrow, anger, and prophecy as she was carried away by Rāvaṇa, her faith unwavering in Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, and her fate entwined with the justice that would soon befall her captor.