रावणेन स्वरूपप्रकटनं सीताहरणं च

In the last sarga Sītā had rebuked Rāvaṇa in the name of dharma: I am Rāma's wife, and I desire no other. Hearing her words, the mighty Daśagrīva struck one hand against the other and made his body enormous, the first signs of his fury. That master of words spoke again to Maithilī: "I think you are out of your senses and have never heard of my might and prowess." Then his boasting began. "Standing in the sky I could lift up the earth with my two arms; I could drink up the ocean; standing in battle I could kill Death himself; I could pierce the sun with sharp arrows and split the surface of the earth. Look at me, deluded woman, who can take any shape I please." Notice that the one who had spoken gentle words in a mendicant's dress now took refuge in a display of force: a lustful man beaten by words of dharma treats strength as the only proof. By calling her "out of your senses" he names her faithfulness madness, a complete inversion of judgement. Striking hand on hand is a common sign of rage and challenge, and swelling his body is the second. His five claims are all of what he could do, not of anything done, so to a careful eye the boast is only fancy. And he takes five vast things for his images, earth, ocean, death, sun and the ground itself; the greater the thing, the greater the boast.

As Rāvaṇa spoke, his eyes, bright as fire and tawny at the corners, turned red with rage; anger shows first in the eyes. In an instant he cast off that gentle shape and took on his own form, fierce and terrible as Death. Red-eyed, adorned with ornaments of burnished gold, possessed by a mighty anger, looking like a dark thundercloud, ten-faced and twenty-armed, so the night-rover stood revealed. Throwing off the mendicant's disguise, the huge lord of the rākṣasas took back his own shape, and clad in red garments he stood gazing at Maithilī, that jewel among women. The order of the description is worth noting: first the eyes, then the form, then the ornaments, and last the ten faces and twenty arms. The casting off of the disguise is the centre of this sarga: deceit lasts only as long as deceit will serve, and after that comes force; that is the rākṣasa way. Gold ornaments and a thundercloud's darkness, splendour and terror together, are Rāvaṇa's very nature. "In an instant" is significant, direct proof that he could change his shape at will; what he had said, "look at me, who can take any shape I please", he now showed in action. And "jewel among women" reveals how he saw her: to him Sītā was a jewel, a thing to be carried off, not a virtuous woman to be revered. So the ground is laid for the enticements that follow.

Seeing Maithilī, her dark hair framing her face, radiant as the sun, in her fine garments and ornaments, Rāvaṇa said, "If you want a husband renowned in all three worlds, fair-hipped lady, turn to me; I am a husband worthy of you. Love me for ever; I am a husband to be proud of, and I will never do anything to displease you, good lady. Give up your attachment to a mortal and set your heart on me." Then he began to belittle Rāma: "Fallen from his kingdom, his purpose unaccomplished, his life brief, what virtues of Rāma's make you so devoted to him, you foolish woman who think yourself wise? He left his kingdom and all his friends at a woman's word, and now the dull-witted man lives in a forest haunted by beasts of prey." Rāvaṇa's reasoning is purely worldly: power, fame and long life are to him the virtues of a husband, and Rāma's devotion to dharma looks like folly. Calling her one "who thinks herself wise" mocks her judgement. The clash between the way of dharma and the way of worldly gain is plain here. With "give up your attachment to a mortal" he treats humanity itself as lesser and rākṣasa glory as higher, yet for Sītā that human bond is her dharma. "His life brief" reminds her that Rāma is mortal and hints at Rāvaṇa's own long life won by his boon. And in blaming Rāma for obeying a woman, while he himself was driven by lust for a woman, lies a great irony that the poet intends.

Having spoken so to Maithilī, who deserved only kindness and spoke only kindly, that utterly wicked rākṣasa, maddened by desire, came close and seized Sītā, as the planet Budha seizes Rohiṇī in the sky. With his left hand he grasped the lotus-eyed Sītā by the hair, and with his right he caught her by the thighs. Seeing him, huge as a mountain peak, sharp-fanged, mighty-armed, like Death himself, the forest deities fled in terror. Then Rāvaṇa's great magical chariot appeared, golden-bodied, drawn by asses and harsh in its sound. Threatening her with harsh words, the loud-voiced rākṣasa took Vaidehī up in his arms and set her on the chariot. Seized by him, the glorious lady cried out aloud, "Rāma!", calling to her husband who had gone far off into the forest. She did not want him, but he was sick with desire, and taking her up as she writhed like the mate of a serpent king, Rāvaṇa rose into the air. The images repay thought: Rohiṇī seized by a planet, a serpent's mate seized as by Garuḍa; both speak of the strong laying hold of the weak. The flight of the forest deities describes Rāvaṇa's terror indirectly. "She who deserved only kindness" is the seed of pathos: she who merited gentle words is threatened with harsh ones. Seizing a woman by the hair and by the thighs are both counted in the sacred texts as the gravest sin of violating another's wife. A chariot drawn by asses rather than horses, with its harsh sound, is a sign of ill omen, and so Rāvaṇa's ruin is foretold here already. As the planet touching Rohiṇī portends evil, so Rāvaṇa's touch portends disaster for the world.

As the lord of the rākṣasas carried her through the sky, she screamed again and again, like a madwoman, her mind in turmoil, like one delirious with fever. "Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, mighty-armed one, who delight your elders' hearts, you do not know that I am being carried off by a rākṣasa who can take any shape! Rāghava, you who give up life, comfort and wealth for dharma's sake, you do not see me carried off against all dharma. Surely you are the one who disciplines the lawless, scorcher of foes; why do you not punish this wicked Rāvaṇa?" Then she answered herself: "But the fruit of a lawless deed is not seen at once; time plays its part, as in the ripening of crops." And she cursed Rāvaṇa: "You have done this with your mind destroyed by Time. May you meet at Rāma's hands the dreadful ruin that will end your life." Her grief passes through stages: first the cry, then the reproach, then reflection on dharma, and last the curse. With the image of the harvest she excuses her husband's delay herself; it is her devotion that gives rise to the reasoning. She calls Lakṣmaṇa first, because he had been left to guard the hermitage, and then Rāma, her husband and refuge. By calling Rāma the one who disciplines the lawless she reminds him of a king's duty, for punishing the wicked is a ruler's task. The ripening crop not only excuses the delay but hints that Rāvaṇa's destruction is certain and only waits for its time. And her "punish Rāvaṇa" is almost a command to her distant husband: even in separation, it is trust that speaks.

"Ah, now Kaikeyī and her kin have got their wish, for I, the lawful wife of that glorious lover of dharma, am being carried away." Then she called even on the things without life. "I call on Janasthāna and on the flowering karṇikāra trees: tell Rāma quickly that Rāvaṇa is carrying Sītā away. I bow to you, Godāvarī, ringing with geese and cranes: tell Rāma quickly that Rāvaṇa is carrying Sītā away. I bow to whatever deities dwell in this forest of many trees: tell my husband I have been stolen. To whatever creatures of every kind live here, and to the flocks of beasts and birds, I go for refuge. Tell him: 'Sītā, dearer to her husband than life, has been carried off helpless by Rāvaṇa.' Once he knows, that mighty-armed and mighty lord will come after me, even to the other world, and bring me back by force, even if it were Vaivasvata, Death himself, who had taken me." Here pathos reaches its height: when there is no human being to help, trees, rivers, beasts and birds become her messengers. Her last words show her unshaken trust. The verb she uses means both to call upon and to bid farewell, and so it also suggests she is taking leave of Janasthāna. Trees, river, deities and living creatures in turn: the whole life of Janasthāna is begged to carry her message. "Tell Rāma quickly" comes twice like a refrain, the natural repetition of one in anguish. And she ends with "he will bring me back", in the future tense, with no doubt at all.

Uttering such piteous words, lamenting in deep sorrow, the wide-eyed lady caught sight of a vulture perched in a tree. Looking up at him, the fair lady, now in Rāvaṇa's power, cried out in terror, her voice broken with grief: "Look, noble Jaṭāyus! This wicked lord of the rākṣasas is carrying me off pitilessly, as if I had no one to protect me. You cannot stop this cruel night-rover; he is strong, flushed with victory, armed, and evil-minded. But tell Rāma exactly how I was carried off, Jaṭāyus, and tell Lakṣmaṇa everything, leaving nothing out." Sītā's good sense deserves praise: she does not urge the old vulture to fight but gives him the task of messenger, and she herself acknowledges the enemy's strength. Yet, as the next sarga shows, Jaṭāyus chose to fight. "As if I had no one" conveys the pity of it: a woman with a protector was, in that moment, without one; and on that the sarga ends. The tree where he sat tells where Jaṭāyus was: the old bird had been sleeping in it, as the next sarga makes clear. Sītā calls him "noble", honouring even a bird, for he was Daśaratha's friend. "Pitilessly" marks the cruelty of the abduction. These last verses, giving him his errand, are the seed of the sargas that follow, in which Jaṭāyus first confronts Rāvaṇa with words and then with battle. And by "exactly" she asks for a plain account of what was seen, without embellishment.