Rāvaṇa, the mighty king of the rākṣasas, stood before Sītā and began to speak with persuasive force. “O Sītā,” he declared, “I am the lord over all these formidable warriors. At my command, for each one, I have a thousand ready to act on my behalf. This entire kingdom, O wide-eyed one, rests upon you now, and my very life—dear Sītā—you are dearer to me than breath itself.” He continued, “Among all my noble consorts, you, Sītā, are their sovereign. Become my wife, beloved. Why do you persist in thinking otherwise? Accept my words and grant your favor to me, who am tormented by longing. Be gracious, Sītā. 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 could match my strength.” Rāvaṇa’s voice grew more insistent. “What will you do with Rāma—deprived of his kingdom, miserable, an ascetic, wandering 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, so 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 the three worlds, I see no one who could, by force, take you away while you are guarded by my arms.” He offered her the riches of his kingdom: “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, and here are the finest ornaments; enjoy them with me. 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, that aerial car moves as swiftly as thought. There, Sītā, enjoy yourself with me as you please; your face, like a lotus, pure and lovely to behold—” But then Rāvaṇa paused, noticing her sorrow. “O beautiful one, your face does not shine, afflicted as you are by grief.” As he spoke, Sītā, the noble lady, held back her tears with the edge of her garment. Her face, like the moon, was dimmed by worry; she appeared unwell, lost in thought. Rāvaṇa’s tone hardened. “Enough of this shame, Vaidehī, brought on by your breach of duty. This lack of movement that will overpower 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 how Sītā responded. Though tormented by grief, Vaidehī became fearless. Placing a blade of grass between herself and Rāvaṇa, she replied with dignity: “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.” Her voice was steady as she continued, “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.” Sītā’s words were resolute: “Even if you are invulnerable to gods or demons, Rāvaṇa, after provoking such great enmity, you will not escape alive from him. 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.” She concluded with a stern warning: “You are as good as dead, your glory gone, your strength and senses lost; because of you, Laṅkā will be left widowed. 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 Daṇḍaka 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. When destruction comes upon beings, driven by time, then people, subject to fate, become careless in their actions.” Thus did Sītā, steadfast and pure, answer the advances and threats of Rāvaṇa, her heart unwavering in devotion to Rāma.