As Sītā was being carried away through the sky, her eyes red with anger and tears, she gazed sorrowfully at Rāvaṇa, the terrifying-eyed lord of the Rākṣasas. With a voice trembling from grief and indignation, she rebuked him: “Do you feel no shame, vile Rāvaṇa, for this cowardly act—abducting me while I am alone and fleeing like a thief? Was it not you, evil-minded coward, who deceived my husband by taking the form of a golden deer, luring him away just so you could steal me? Even the ancient king of vultures, my father-in-law’s friend who rose to protect me, has now been struck down by your hand. “Your strength, lowest of Rākṣasas, is truly revealed now, for though you boast your name, you have not faced me in battle. How do you not feel shame for such a despicable deed—abducting another man’s wife in secret? The world will speak of your act as contemptible, cruel, and unrighteous, no matter how loudly you proclaim your heroism. Fie upon your supposed valor and character; your conduct brings disgrace to your lineage. Shame on you. “What can I do, since you flee so swiftly? Stay but a moment—you would not return alive. Not even with your entire army could you survive a moment if you came within sight of those two princes. You could not endure even the touch of their arrows, just as a bird cannot withstand the touch of fire blazing in the forest. “Do what is truly good for yourself, Rāvaṇa—release me now. My husband, enraged at this violation, together with his brother, will certainly bring about your destruction. If you do not release me, he will ensure your ruin. By this very resolve with which you seize me by force, you bring about your own end. “Your resolve, wretch, will come to nothing. I, not seeing my husband—who is equal to the gods—cannot endure life long under the power of an enemy. Do you not consider what is truly good or beneficial for yourself? Just as a man at the moment of death pursues what is harmful, 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 you do not fear in this perilous moment, night-wanderer. Clearly, you see golden trees and the dreadful Vaitaraṇī river, carrying streams of blood. You see, too, the terrifying forest of sword-bladed leaves, with flowers of heated gold and coverings of finest beryl. You will soon see the sharp Salmali tree studded with iron thorns; for having done such a deed to that great soul, you will not escape the consequences. “You will not endure for long, pitiless one, as if having drunk poison. You are bound by the noose of Time, Rāvaṇa, which none can resist. Where will you go to find peace, apart from my husband, even for a moment, without your brother in battle? He who slew fourteen thousand Rākṣasas—how could that heroic descendant of Raghu, skilled in all weapons, fail? “He would not even kill you with sharp arrows, even though you have stolen his beloved wife.” Thus, Vaidehī, seated on Rāvaṇa’s lap, overwhelmed by fear and grief, lamented pitifully, uttering these and other harsh words. Then, greatly distressed and speaking many words, the radiant Sītā, trembling in her limbs and lamenting piteously, struggled as the wicked Rāvaṇa seized her. As the abduction continued, Sītā, seeing no protector, noticed five foremost monkeys standing on a mountain peak. The wide-eyed lady, of excellent form, wearing a silk upper garment shining like gold and adorned with auspicious ornaments, conceived a desperate hope. Thinking they might inform Rāma, she let her garment and ornaments fall among them. In his agitation, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa did not notice this act. The tawny-eyed monkeys watched the wide-eyed Sītā, their gaze unblinking as she cried out. Rāvaṇa, crossing over the great Pampa lake, pressed on toward the city of Laṅkā, carrying the weeping Maithilī. Delighted, though it meant his own doom, Rāvaṇa held Sītā in his lap like a serpent with sharp fangs and deadly venom, flying swiftly over forests, rivers, mountains, and lakes. Like an arrow shot from a bow, he crossed to the abode of Varuṇa, the inexhaustible home of whales and crocodiles. Reaching the refuge of rivers, he crossed the ocean; in his agitation, the waves parted, blocking fish and great serpents from his path. As Vaidehī was carried away, the abode of Varuṇa appeared, and voices arose in the sky, uttered by celestial bards: “This is the end of the ten-headed one.” Meanwhile, Rāvaṇa, with Sītā still struggling, held her firmly on his lap. He entered the city of Laṅkā—unbeknownst to him, the very form of his own death. Passing through splendid roads, he entered his vast and securely enclosed inner palace. There, Rāvaṇa placed Sītā, her eyes dark and filled with grief and confusion, and confined her, just as Maya once did with his illusory demoness. Then, the ten-headed lord addressed the terrifying, ghastly-looking demonesses who stood before him.