Chapter 26 — The Abduction of Sita

Not long after Lakshmana disappeared among the trees, an ascetic came to the dwelling.

He wore the marks of renunciation and carried the staff and water vessel of a wanderer. Sita saw him beyond the Lakshman Rekha, the narrow protective line Lakshmana had drawn around the dwelling, and, though fear still tightened her breath, received him with the courtesy owed to a guest. She offered a seat and asked who he was.

The stranger did not answer at once. His eyes moved over the dwelling, the forest, and finally Sita. He praised her beauty and asked why a woman of her presence lived in such a dangerous place. Who were the two men who kept weapons near a hermit's home? Why did she remain with them in Dandaka?

Sita answered with the dignity of someone answering for a life she had chosen. She named Rama, eldest son of Dasharatha, who had given up Ayodhya's throne to fulfill his father's word. She named Lakshmana, his brother and companion. She named herself Sita, daughter of Janaka, who had come into exile with her husband. Then she asked the guest his own name and purpose.

The stranger answered with the quiet demand of a wandering ascetic who had come for alms. Ravana saw the Lakshman Rekha at the threshold and did not attempt to cross it. Instead he lifted his water vessel, calling on the obligation of a householder to give.

When Sita held the offering within the boundary, the ascetic's voice hardened. Was this the honor she gave a guest? Had Lakshmana's line made her too proud to step out and place alms in an ascetic's hands? He spoke as though her caution were an insult to sacred hospitality, and as though he, rather than she, had been wronged.

Sita had already offered welcome; to refuse the guest at her threshold seemed another kind of wrong. She stepped beyond the Rekha with the offering.

Then the ascetic shape broke. Ravana stood before her: king of Lanka, powerful in the world of rakshasas, clothed in royal splendor that did not hide the violence of his intent.

“Come with me to Lanka,” he said. He described its wealth, its palaces, its command over the sea. He offered rank, pleasure, and possession as though an offer could make the taking clean.

Sita drew back. “I belong with Rama,” she said. “You speak of strength and kingdoms, but you do not know whom you challenge. Leave while you can.”

Ravana's desire did not soften into shame. It hardened. He seized her and carried her toward his chariot. Sita resisted with all the force she had. She called for Rama and Lakshmana; she called to the trees, the river, the mountains, and the creatures of the forest to bear witness that Ravana was taking her by force.

The chariot rose into the air. Beneath it, Panchavati fell away: the leaf dwelling, the familiar bend of water, branches rushing past. Ravana drove south through the sky, away from Dandaka and toward the sea that separated the forest from his island capital. Sita tore ornaments from herself and cast them down where they might be found. They fell upon a height where vanaras were gathered; the watchers saw the glint of gold and cloth but did not yet know whose sign it was.

Jatayu heard her cries.

The aged vulture king had promised Rama that he would watch over Sita. He rose from his rest and saw Ravana's chariot crossing the sky. Old as he was, he did not turn aside.

“Ravana!” he called. “I knew Dasharatha. I will not watch his son's wife be carried away.”

Ravana answered with threats. Jatayu came on. His wings struck the chariot; his talons tore at its fittings and broke the force of its flight. He met Ravana as a guardian meets a trespasser, not as a creature too small to matter. For a time the chariot lurched and swayed above the forest. Jatayu broke the yoke, struck down the charioteer, and forced Ravana to fight for every measure of air.

Sita called to him, urging him to save himself. Jatayu would not leave. He told Ravana again that no king had the right to take another man's wife, that strength used for theft brought ruin. Ravana answered with weapons. The struggle continued until the old bird's body could no longer bear it. Ravana cut him down.

Jatayu fell into the forest, still alive, while Ravana seized Sita again and drove onward. The flying chariot crossed the wide sea below it, carrying Sita farther from the forest with every measure of air, until Lanka rose ahead: Ravana's island capital beyond the water. There he placed her under guard in a grove within his city, not as a queen who had accepted him, but as a captive who would not.

Rama returned toward Panchavati with the deer killed behind him and unease before him. He met Lakshmana coming through the trees.

“Why have you left Sita?” Rama asked.

Lakshmana told him of the cry and Sita's terror. The answer gave no comfort. Rama had heard Maricha's final sound and knew the trap had closed around them. The brothers ran.

The dwelling stood open to the light. No Sita came out to meet them. Her seat, the flowers, the small marks of daily life remained; she did not. Rama called her name, first as if she might answer from nearby, then again into the trees, and the forest gave him only its silence.