In the Ashoka grove, Sita stood firm before Ravana, her heart unwavering despite the terror surrounding her. She spoke with conviction, comparing herself to an altar sanctified by the mantras of the twice-born: just as such an altar 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, steadfast in her vows, she could not be touched by Ravana, the wicked Rakshasa. Sita likened herself to a swan playing among lotuses, never noticing a mud-hen hidden among the reeds; she was beyond Ravana's reach. With calm resolve, Sita declared that her body was insensible to pain or fear; Ravana could bind or kill it as he wished, for neither her body nor her life was to be protected from him. Yet, she would never relinquish her honor upon this earth. Having spoken thus, Vaidehi’s words grew harsh with righteous anger. Janaki said no more to Ravana, her words sharp and hair-raising. Ravana, in turn, sought to frighten Sita. He told her, “Listen, Maithili, to my words, O beautiful one, for twelve months. If within this time you do not approach me, O lovely-smiling one, my cooks will cut you into pieces for breakfast.” With these cruel threats, Ravana, the enemy of enemies, angrily addressed the Rakshasis. At his command, the hideous, terrifying Rakshasis—those who feasted on flesh and blood—were ordered to humble Sita’s pride. Fierce and dreadful, they surrounded Maithili, palms joined in reverence as Ravana, stamping his feet as if to tear the earth, instructed them: “Take Maithili to the center of the Ashoka grove; let her be guarded there, hidden and surrounded by you. With fierce threats and coaxing words, bring this daughter of Mithila under control, as one would a wild elephant-cow.” Thus commanded, the Rakshasi women led Maithili to the Ashoka grove, a place surrounded by trees bearing all desired fruits, adorned with flowers and fruits, and always attended by intoxicated birds. There, Maithili, the daughter of Janaka, seized by grief, fell under the power of the Rakshasis, like a doe among tigers. Consumed by sorrow, she found no peace, like a frightened deer caught in a snare. Threatened harshly by those with monstrous eyes, remembering her beloved husband and his brother, Sita became senseless, tormented by fear and grief. Meanwhile, in the forest, Rama swiftly killed Maricha, who had roamed in the form of a deer, able to assume any shape at will. Turning back on the path, Rama hurried, eager to see Maithili, when suddenly a jackal with a cruel voice howled behind him. Hearing that dreadful, hair-raising sound, Rama became suspicious and pondered its meaning. “Alas,” he thought, “this jackal’s howl is an evil omen. May Vaidehi be safe, unharmed by the rakshasas.” He reflected further: if Lakshmana hears the cry, which Maricha—imitating Rama’s voice in the form of a deer—had uttered, then Saumitri, hearing that voice and leaving Maithili, would quickly come to him, sent by her. Surely, the rakshasas desired Sita’s death; by becoming a golden deer, they had lured him away from the hermitage. Maricha, having led Rama far away, was struck by Rama’s arrow and cried out, “Alas, Lakshmana, I am slain!” Rama worried for those two, left alone by him in the forest, for his actions at Janasthana had made him an enemy to the rakshasas. Many dreadful omens appeared that day. Rama, self-possessed yet anxious, quickly turned back toward the hermitage, reflecting on how the rakshasa, in the form of a deer, had drawn him away. As he returned to Janasthana, the forest animals and birds gathered around him, sharing in his sorrow, uttering dreadful cries as they placed the great-souled one on their left. Seeing these terrible omens, Rama hastened toward his own hermitage. Then he saw Lakshmana approaching, his radiance faded. Lakshmana drew near to Rama, not far away. Distressed himself, Rama saw his brother equally afflicted with sorrow and reproached him as he arrived. “Ah, Lakshmana, it is blameworthy what you have done, leaving Sita alone in the forest haunted by rakshasas.” Raghava took Lakshmana’s left hand and spoke words both sweet and harsh, filled with pain: “You have come here, gentle one, leaving Sita—may all be well! Yet, O hero, I have no doubt: the daughter of Janaka has either perished or been devoured by the rakshasas who roam the forest. For only inauspicious omens appear before me in abundance. O Lakshmana, will we find any trace of Sita, the daughter of Janaka, the tiger among men, while she still lives?” Thus, the sorrow of Rama and Sita echoed through the Ashoka grove and the forest, their hearts bound by love and anguish, as fate unfolded its relentless path.