Rāvaṇa, the mighty king of Lanka, stood before Sītā and boasted of his power. He spoke of the vast army under his command: ten crores of Rākṣasas and twenty-two thousand chariots, not even counting the old, the very young, or those who wander by night. “O Sītā,” he declared, “I am lord over all these warriors; for each one, a thousand obey my command, ready to act for me.” Turning to Sītā with affection, Rāvaṇa proclaimed, “This entire kingdom, O wide-eyed one, rests upon you; and my very life—dear Sītā—you are more precious to me than breath itself. Among the many noble women who are my consorts, you, Sītā, are their sovereign. Become my wife, beloved.” He pleaded, “Why do you persist in thinking otherwise? Accept my words; grant your favor to me, tormented as I am, and be gracious.” Rāvaṇa spoke of Lanka, encircled by the sea and a hundred yojanas wide, declaring, “This place cannot be violated, not even by the gods with Indra, nor by demons. In all the worlds—among gods, yakshas, gandharvas, or sages—I see none who could match my strength.” He mocked Rāma, asking, “What will you do with Rāma—deprived of his kingdom, miserable, an 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, timid one; enjoy yourself here with me.” Rāvaṇa warned her, “Do not set your mind, O beautiful-faced one, on seeing Raghava; who here has the power, even in thought, to come to you, Sītā? Just as the swift wind cannot be bound with cords, nor can the 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.” He tempted her further, “Rule this vast kingdom of Lanka; let those like me, and even the gods, moving and unmoving, be your servants. Having been anointed with consecration water, enjoy yourself; whatever wrong was done by dwelling in the forest is now past. And whatever good deeds you have done, receive their reward here. Here are garlands with divine fragrance, O Maithili, and the finest ornaments; enjoy them with me.” Rāvaṇa boasted of the Pushpaka chariot, “The Pushpaka, O beautiful-hipped one, is my brother Vaiśravaṇa’s—a chariot shining like the sun, seized by force in battle, vast and delightful, moving as swiftly as thought. There, Sītā, enjoy yourself with me as you please; your face, like a lotus, pure and lovely to behold—yet, O beautiful one, your face does not shine, afflicted as you are by sorrow.” As he spoke, Sītā, noble and steadfast, held back her tears with the edge of her garment. Her face, like the moon, was dimmed by worry. Seeing this, Rāvaṇa, the night-stalker, chided her, “Enough of this shame, Vaidehī, brought on by your breach of duty. This lack of movement that overpowers 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.” Having spoken thus to Maithilī, daughter of Janaka, the ten-headed one, seized by fate, thought, “She is mine.” Now hear the next chapter. Thus addressed, Vaidehī—though tormented by grief—became fearless. Placing a blade of grass between herself and Rāvaṇa, she replied to him. “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, like a god to me. Born in the Ikṣvāku line, lion-shouldered and radiant, he, together with his brother Lakṣmaṇa, will take your life.” Sītā warned him, “If, before his eyes, you were to violate me by force, you would lie slain in battle at Janasthāna, just as Khara did. All these Rākṣasas you boast of, fierce and mighty, are powerless before Rāghava, as serpents are before Garuḍa. His arrows, released from the bowstring and adorned with gold, will strike your body like waves striking the bank of the Gaṅgā. Even if you are invulnerable to gods or demons, Rāvaṇa, after provoking such great enmity, you will not escape alive from him.” She continued, “That mighty Rāghava will be the end of your remaining life; your survival is as unlikely as that of a beast led to the sacrificial post. If Rāma were to see you with eyes blazing in anger, you, demon, would be burned up today as Kāmadeva was by Rudra. He who could cast down the moon from the sky, destroy it, or dry up the ocean—only he could free Sītā here. You are as good as dead, your glory gone, your strength and senses lost; because of you, Laṅkā will be left widowed.” Sītā’s words were fierce and unwavering. “This wicked deed of yours will not bring you happiness; you have taken me by force from my husband’s side, separating me from him. My husband, radiant and mighty, endowed with divine strength, dwells fearlessly in the desolate Dandaka forest, relying on his valor. He will strip you of your strength, power, arrogance, and pride in battle, with a rain of arrows upon your body.” Thus, Sītā spoke, undaunted, her faith in Rāma shining bright, even in the heart of Rāvaṇa’s palace.