As Sītā was carried away by Rāvaṇa, she spoke out with indignation and sorrow, her words sharp with righteous anger. “Do you feel no shame, vile Rāvaṇa, for this act? You abduct me when I am alone and flee like a thief in the night. It was you, cowardly and evil-minded, who lured my husband away by deception, taking the form of a golden deer to achieve your wicked aim. Even when the noble king of vultures, my father-in-law’s dear friend, rose to protect me, you struck him down without mercy. Your strength, O lowest of Rākṣasas, is truly revealed now—not by valor, but by treachery. You proclaimed your name, yet 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, like a wretch? The world will speak of your act as contemptible, cruel, and unrighteous, despite your boasts of heroism. Fie upon your supposed valor and character! Your 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 for an instant once those two princes see you. You are powerless against their arrows, just as a bird cannot withstand the touch of blazing forest fire. Do what is truly good for yourself, Rāvaṇa—release me. My husband, enraged at this violation, together with his brother, will surely bring about your destruction. If you do not release me, he will ensure your ruin. By the very resolve with which you seize me by force, you will perish. Your determination, wretch, will come to nothing, for I cannot long endure life under an enemy’s control, separated from my husband, who is equal to the gods. Surely you do not consider what is truly good or beneficial for yourself. Just as a dying man pursues what is adverse, so too do those doomed to die disregard what is good. I see you already bound at the throat by the noose of death, yet in this perilous moment you do not fear, O night-wanderer. Clearly, you see only trees of gold and the dreadful Vaitaraṇī river, flowing with streams of blood. You see, too, the terrifying forest of sword-bladed leaves, with flowers of heated gold and coverings of finest beryl. Soon you will see the sharp Śalmali tree, studded with iron thorns; for committing such a crime against that great soul, you will not escape its consequences. You will not endure for long, pitiless one, as though you had drunk poison; you are bound by the noose of Time, Rāvaṇa, which none can resist. Where will you find peace, even for an instant, apart from my husband, the great soul, and his brother in battle? He who slew fourteen thousand rākṣasas—how can that heroic descendant of Raghu, skilled in all weapons, fail? Yet he would not 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. Distressed and trembling, the radiant maiden struggled as the wicked Rāvaṇa seized her. Now begins the fifty-fourth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Aranyakāṇḍa. As Vaidehī was being carried away, seeing no protector in sight, she noticed five foremost monkeys standing on a mountain peak. Among them, the wide-eyed lady, graceful and adorned with auspicious ornaments, wore a silk upper garment shining like gold. Thinking they might inform Rāma, she let her garment and her ornaments fall among them. In his agitation, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa did not notice this act, but the tawny-eyed monkeys watched Sītā intently, their gaze unblinking. The best of monkeys saw Sītā crying out as Rāvaṇa carried her swiftly across the Pampa lake, heading toward the city of Laṅkā. The king of the rākṣasas, delighted though it meant his own doom, carried Maithilī away as she wept. Holding her in his lap, he soared over forests, rivers, mountains, and lakes like a serpent with sharp fangs and deadly venom. Swift as an arrow 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 themselves turned back, blocking fish and great serpents. As Vaidehī was borne away, the abode of Varuṇa appeared, and celestial voices arose in the sky. The perfected beings declared, “This is the end of the ten-headed one.” All the while, Rāvaṇa held the struggling Sītā on his lap. He entered the city of Laṅkā, which would prove the very form of death for himself. Approaching Laṅkā, with its broad and well-laid roads, he entered his own vast and secure inner palace. There, he placed Sītā, her eyes dark with grief and confusion. Rāvaṇa confined Sītā there, as Maya once did with his illusory demoness. Then the ten-headed one addressed the terrifying, ghastly-looking demonesses: “Let no man or woman, unless approved, see Sītā.