Sītā, confronted by the dreadful Rāvaṇa, spoke with unwavering courage. She declared that all the mighty Rākṣasas of whom he boasted were powerless before Rāghava, just as serpents are helpless before Garuḍa. She warned Rāvaṇa that Rāma’s arrows, adorned with gold and released from his bowstring, would strike his body relentlessly, like the waves of the Gaṅgā battering its banks. Even if Rāvaṇa claimed invulnerability against gods and demons, Sītā assured him that, having provoked such enmity, he would not escape alive from Rāma. The mighty Rāghava would be the end of his remaining days; survival for Rāvaṇa was as unlikely as a beast led to the sacrificial post. Sītā declared that if Rāma saw him with eyes blazing in anger, Rāvaṇa would be burned up instantly, just as Kāmadeva was consumed by Rudra’s wrath. She continued, saying only one who could pull down the moon from the sky, destroy it, or dry up the ocean could hope to rescue Sītā from Rāvaṇa’s grasp. Rāvaṇa was as good as dead; his glory, strength, and senses would be lost, and because of him, Laṅkā would be left widowed. Sītā reminded him that his wicked deed would bring no happiness, for he had seized her by force, separating her from her husband. Her husband, radiant and mighty, endowed with divine strength, dwelled fearlessly in the desolate Dandaka forest, relying solely on his valor. Rāma would strip Rāvaṇa of his strength, power, arrogance, and pride in battle, showering him with arrows. Sītā reflected that when destruction comes, driven by time, people, subject to fate, become careless in their actions. By assaulting her, Rāvaṇa’s time had come—the destruction of himself, the Rākṣasas, and his palace was at hand. Sītā compared herself to an altar sanctified by the mantras of the twice-born, which cannot be desecrated by a Chandala even if placed in the midst of a sacrifice. So too, as the devoted wife of a righteous man, firm in her vows, she could not be touched by Rāvaṇa. She likened herself to a swan among lotuses, never noticing a mud-hen hidden among the reeds, and thus beyond Rāvaṇa’s reach. Her body, she said, was insensible; he could bind or kill it as he wished, for neither her body nor her life was to be protected by him. Yet, she declared, it was impossible for her to relinquish her honor upon this earth. Having spoken thus, Vaidehi uttered harsh words in anger, and then, Janaki said nothing further to Rāvaṇa, her words sharp and hair-raising. Rāvaṇa, angered, replied to Sītā with words meant to inspire fear: "Listen, Maithili, for twelve months you have to heed my words." If within that time she did not approach him, he threatened that his cooks would cut her into pieces for breakfast. Having spoken these dreadful words, Rāvaṇa angrily addressed the Rākṣasis. Immediately, the hideous and terrifying Rākṣasis, who feasted on flesh and blood, were ordered to humble her pride. At his command, these fierce beings, palms joined in reverence, surrounded Maithili. Rāvaṇa, stamping his feet as if tearing the earth, instructed them to take Maithili to the center of the Ashoka grove, to guard her there, hidden and surrounded. He ordered them to use fierce threats and coaxing words, to bring this daughter of Mithila under control, as one would tame a wild elephant-cow. Thus commanded, the Rākṣasi women took Maithili to the Ashoka grove, a place surrounded by trees bearing all desired fruits, adorned with various flowers and always attended by intoxicated birds. There, Maithili, the daughter of Janaka, her body seized by grief, fell under the power of the Rākṣasis, like a doe among tigers. Consumed by great sorrow, she found no peace, like a frightened deer bound in a snare. Harshly threatened by those with monstrous eyes, remembering her beloved husband and his brother, Sītā became senseless, tormented by fear and grief. Meanwhile, the tale turns to Rāma. Hear now the fifty-seventh sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Rāma swiftly killed Mārīca, who had assumed the form of a deer and could change his shape at will, and then turned back on the path. As he hurried, eager to see Maithili, a jackal with a cruel voice howled behind him. Hearing that dreadful, hair-raising sound, Rāma became suspicious and pondered the jackal’s cry. "Alas," he thought, "this jackal’s howl is an evil omen; may Vaidehi be safe, unharmed by the Rākṣasas." He considered that if Lakṣmaṇa heard the cry, which Mārīca, recognizing Rāma’s voice, had imitated in the form of a deer, then Saumitri, hearing that voice and leaving Maithili, would quickly come to him, sent by her. Rāma realized that surely the Rākṣasas desired Sītā’s death; by becoming a golden deer, they had lured him away from the hermitage. Having led him far away, Mārīca, struck by Rāma’s arrow, cried out, "Alas, Lakṣmaṇa, I am slain!