When the appointed time of destruction comes for beings, driven by the force of fate, people become careless in their actions, heedless of the consequences. In this moment, Sita, standing before Ravana, spoke with unwavering resolve, “By attacking me, your own time has come, O vile Rakshasa. This will bring about the destruction of yourself, your race, and even your inner palace. “Just as an altar, adorned with sacred vessels and ladles and sanctified by the mantras of the twice-born, cannot be desecrated by a Chandala even if he enters the midst of the sacrifice, so too, as the devoted wife of a righteous man, firm in my vows, I cannot be touched by you, O wicked Rakshasa. “As a swan, ever at play among lotuses, would never notice a mud-hen hidden among the reeds, so am I beyond your reach. “This body is insensible to your threats; bind it or kill it as you wish. My body and my life are not what I seek to protect, O Rakshasa. It is my honor on this earth that I will never give up.” Having spoken these words, Vaidehi’s voice rang with anger and severity. Janaki, having spoken thus, fell silent, her words to Ravana harsh and hair-raising. Ravana, undeterred, replied with words meant to terrify her: “Listen, Maithili, to what I say. For twelve months, O beautiful one, you have time. If within this period you do not approach me willingly, O lovely-smiling one, my cooks will cut you into pieces for their morning meal.” Having uttered these cruel threats, Ravana, the enemy of his enemies, turned in anger to the rakshasis. “Immediately,” he commanded, “let these hideous, terrifying rakshasis, who feast on flesh and blood, humble her pride.” At his command, those fierce and dreadful rakshasis, their palms joined in reverence, surrounded Maithili. Then Ravana, king of the rakshasas, terrifying to behold, stamped his feet as if to rend the earth and addressed them: “Take Maithili to the center of the Ashoka grove. Guard her there, hidden and surrounded by you all. “With fierce threats and with coaxing words, bring this daughter of Mithila under control, as one would a wild elephant-cow.” Thus commanded by Ravana, the rakshasi women took Maithili and went to the Ashoka grove. The grove was filled with trees bearing all desired fruits, adorned with blossoms and fruits of every kind, and always alive with intoxicated birds. There, Maithili, the daughter of Janaka, her heart seized by grief, fell under the power of the rakshasis, like a gentle doe surrounded by tigers. Consumed by great sorrow, she found no peace, like a frightened deer caught in a snare. There, threatened harshly by rakshasis with monstrous eyes, Maithili found no comfort. Remembering her beloved husband and his brother, she became senseless, tormented by fear and grief. Now, hear the next sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. At that time, Rama swiftly slew Maricha, who had taken the form of a deer and could assume any shape at will. Rama then turned back on the path, eager to return to Maithili. As he hurried, a jackal with a cruel voice howled behind him. Hearing that dreadful, hair-raising sound, Rama became uneasy and pondered the omen. “Alas,” he thought, “this jackal’s howl is an evil sign. May Vaidehi be safe, unharmed by the rakshasas. “If Lakshmana hears the cry, which Maricha, imitating my voice, has uttered in the form of a deer—then Saumitri, hearing that call and leaving Maithili, will quickly come to me, sent by her. “Surely, the rakshasas desire Sita’s death. By becoming a golden deer, they lured me away from the hermitage. Having led me far, Maricha, struck by my arrow, cried out, ‘Alas, Lakshmana, I am slain!’ “May all be well for those two, left alone by me in the forest. Because of Janasthana, I have become an enemy to the rakshasas. Many dreadful omens are seen today.” Thus thinking, Rama heard the jackal’s howl again. Quickly turning back, self-possessed Rama hastened toward the hermitage, reflecting on how the rakshasa, in the form of a deer, had drawn him away. Filled with anxiety, Rama returned to Janasthana. Seeing him dejected, even the forest animals and birds gathered around him, sharing in his sorrow. As the great-souled Rama moved, the creatures placed themselves on his left and uttered dreadful cries. Witnessing these terrible omens, Rama hurried even more swiftly toward his own dwelling. Then, he saw Lakshmana approaching, his radiance dimmed by worry. Lakshmana drew near to Rama, not far away now. Seeing his brother equally distressed and afflicted with sorrow, Rama reproached Lakshmana as he arrived. “Having left Sita alone in the forest haunted by rakshasas,” Rama said, taking Lakshmana’s left hand, “you have come here, gentle one, leaving her behind. Ah, Lakshmana, it is blameworthy, what you have done. May all be well! Yet, O hero, I have no doubt—the daughter of Janaka—” Thus, the brothers stood, their hearts heavy with fear and longing for Sita, uncertain of what fate had befallen her.