Sītā stood with her face awash in tears, her whole being weighed down by grief. She seemed like a boat battered by fierce winds and sinking in the vast ocean, utterly forlorn. As the night-stalker Rāvaṇa approached, Sītā, like a gentle doe separated from her herd and surrounded by hounds, stood with her head bowed, sorrow overwhelming her. Seeing her so helpless and subdued by sorrow, Rāvaṇa, lord of the Rākṣasas, tried to impress her by showing her his magnificent palace, which rivaled the very abodes of the gods. He led her through halls and mansions clustered together, each attended by thousands of women, alive with flocks of birds and adorned with a dazzling array of jewels. The pillars shone with ivory, gold, crystal, and silver, worked into wondrous patterns of diamond and cat’s-eye—truly delightful to behold. The palace resounded with the music of celestial drums, and its golden decorations blazed with splendor. Rāvaṇa ascended a splendid golden staircase with Sītā. All around, rows of palaces boasted charming windows made of ivory and silver, their openings covered with intricate golden lattices. Within his own house, Daśagrīva showed Maithilī every courtyard, each wondrously decorated with lime and precious stones. He pointed out ponds and lakes covered with glorious flowers, but Sītā remained unmoved, her heart absorbed in sorrow. Having shown Vaidehī the entirety of his splendid palace, the wicked-hearted Rāvaṇa spoke to her, trying to entice her with his words: “There are ten crores of Rākṣasas and twenty-two thousand chariots at my command, not counting the old, the very young, and the night-wanderers. O Sītā, I am lord over all these mighty warriors. For each one, I have a thousand ready to act at my command. This entire kingdom, O wide-eyed one, rests upon you—and my very life, dearest Sītā, you are dearer to me than breath itself. “Among all the noble women who are my consorts, you, Sītā, would be their sovereign. Become my wife, beloved. Why do you persist in thinking otherwise? Accept my words; grant your favor to me, who am tormented, and be gracious. “This city of Laṅkā, encircled by the sea and a hundred yojanas wide, cannot be violated even by the gods with Indra at their head, nor by the demons. Among gods, yakṣas, gandharvas, or sages, I see no one in all the worlds who can match my strength. What will you do with Rāma—deprived of his kingdom, miserable, a wandering ascetic, traveling on foot, a mere human of little power? “Accept me alone, Sītā, as your husband, for I am your equal. Youth is fleeting, O timid one; enjoy yourself here with me. Do not set your mind, O beautiful-faced one, on seeing Rāghava. Who here has the power, even in thought, to come to you, Sītā? Just as the swift wind in the sky cannot be bound with cords, nor can the pure flames of a blazing fire be seized, so too, in all three worlds, I see no one who could, by force, take you away while you are guarded by my arms. “Rule this vast kingdom of Laṅkā; let those like me, and even the gods, moving and unmoving, be your servants. Having been anointed with consecration water, be pleased and enjoy yourself. Whatever wrong was done before, by dwelling in the forest, is now past. And whatever good deeds you have done, receive their reward here. Here are all the garlands with divine fragrance, O Maithilī. Here are the finest ornaments; enjoy them with me. “The Puṣpaka, O beautiful-hipped one, is my brother Vaiśravaṇa’s—a chariot shining like the sun, seized by force in battle, vast and delightful, that aerial car moves as swiftly as thought. There, Sītā, enjoy yourself with me as you please; your face is like a pure and lovely lotus. But, O beautiful one, your face does not shine, afflicted as you are by sorrow.” As he spoke thus, Sītā, the noble lady, with the edge of her garment, strove to hold back her tears. Her face, like the moon, was dimmed by worry; she appeared lost in thought, her radiance faded by grief. Then Rāvaṇa, the night-stalker, spoke sharply: “Enough of this shame, Vaidehī, brought on by your breach of duty. This lack of movement that overcomes you is a sage’s curse. My feet, gentle towards you, are pressed down by my head. Grant me your favor quickly; I am your obedient servant. These words I speak are empty, dried up within me. Nor would Rāvaṇa ever bow his head to any woman.” With these words to Maithilī, daughter of Janaka, the ten-headed one, seized by fate, thought, “She is mine.” Though tormented by sorrow, Vaidehī became fearless as she heard these words. Placing a single blade of grass between herself and Rāvaṇa, she replied: “There is a king named Daśaratha, steadfast in truth, a pillar of righteousness like a mountain; his son is that Rāghava. That righteous Rāma, renowned in the three worlds, long-armed and broad-eyed, is my husband—he is like a god to me. Born in the Ikṣvāku line, lion-shouldered and radiant, he, together with his brother Lakṣmaṇa, will take your life. If, before his eyes, you were to violate me by force, you would lie slain in battle at Janasthāna, just as Khara did.