As Rāvaṇa, the ten-headed king of the Rākṣasas, carried Sītā away through the sky, the very mountains themselves seemed to cry out in anguish. Their streams gaped like open mouths, their peaks thrust upward like desperate arms, as if pleading for her release. The sun, usually resplendent in his glory, was stricken by grief at the sight of Vaidehī’s abduction; his brilliance faded, and his disk appeared pale and wan. In that place where Rāvaṇa seized Sītā—Rāma’s beloved—righteousness vanished. Truth, integrity, and compassion could find no foothold. All the creatures of the forest, gathering in anxious clusters, lamented together. Young animals, terrified and downcast, raised their voices in plaintive cries. The deities of the woods, their bodies trembling with fear, stared again and again with wide, bewildered eyes, unable to comprehend the calamity unfolding before them. Sītā cried out, her voice ringing with pain, calling for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa in tones sweet yet desperate. Rāvaṇa seized her, glancing nervously at the earth below. Her hair was disheveled, her ornaments askew—she, the gentle Vaidehī, was being carried off for Rāvaṇa’s own destruction. Deprived of her kin, the beautiful Maithilī, her smile now lost, searched in vain for Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa, her face pale and her heart heavy with fear. Now begins the fifty-third chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. As she soared through the sky in Rāvaṇa’s grasp, Maithilī, the daughter of Janaka, was overwhelmed by distress and terror. Her eyes, reddened by anger and tears, blazed as she addressed the lord of the Rākṣasas, whose own eyes were fierce and terrifying. “Do you not feel shame, vile one?” she cried. “You abduct me, knowing I am alone, and flee like a thief! It was you, coward, who lured my husband away by trickery—taking the form of a deer to fulfill your wicked aim. Even the noble king of vultures, my father-in-law’s friend, who rose to protect me, has now been struck down by your hand. “Your strength is seen only in such base acts, lowest of Rākṣasas. Though you proclaimed your name, you did not face me in battle. How do you not shrink from shame after such a despicable deed—abducting another’s wife in secret, wretch that you are? The world will know your act as contemptible and cruel, most unrighteous, despite your boasts of heroism. “Fie upon your valor and character; your conduct brings disgrace to your lineage—shame on you! What can I do, since you flee so swiftly? Stay, even for a moment—you will not return alive. Not even with your entire army could you survive a moment before those two princes. You cannot endure the touch of their arrows, just as a bird cannot bear the flames of a forest fire. “Do what is truly good for yourself, Rāvaṇa—release me now. My husband, enraged by this violation, together with his brother, will bring about your destruction. If you do not, your very resolve to seize me will be your end. Your efforts are doomed to fail, for I cannot long endure life under the power of an enemy, deprived of my husband, who is equal to the gods. “You do not consider your own good. Just as a dying man pursues what is adverse, so too do those about to die disregard what is truly beneficial. I see you already bound by the noose of death, yet you do not fear, night-wanderer. You see, in your delusion, trees made of gold, the dreadful river Vaitaraṇī streaming with blood, and the terrifying forest of sword-bladed leaves with golden flowers and beryl coverings. You will soon meet the sharp Salmali tree, studded with iron thorns; for such a deed against that great soul, you will not escape its consequences. “You will not endure for long, pitiless one, as if you have drunk poison. You are bound by the inescapable noose of Time, Rāvaṇa. Where will you find peace, even for a moment, apart from my husband, the great soul, or his brother in battle? Fourteen thousand Rākṣasas fell before him—how could that mighty descendant of Raghu fail? He would not kill you even now, though you have stolen his beloved wife.” Thus, seated on Rāvaṇa’s lap, Vaidehī poured out her grief and fear in harsh, pitiful words. Greatly distressed and trembling, she struggled as she was seized by the wicked Rāvaṇa, her radiant form wracked with sorrow. Now begins the fifty-fourth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. As Vaidehī was carried away, bereft of any protector, she caught sight of five foremost monkeys standing atop a mountain peak. Wide-eyed and of excellent form, adorned with auspicious ornaments and wearing a silk garment shining like gold, Sītā saw a glimmer of hope. Thinking they might carry word to Rāma, she let her upper garment and her ornaments fall among them. In his agitation, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa did not notice this act. The tawny-eyed monkeys gazed up at Sītā, their eyes unblinking, as she passed above them—her silent plea for rescue cast down in the form of her precious tokens.