As the fierce battle raged on the dusty field of Lanka, Rāvaṇa, the mighty king of the rakshasas, found himself overwhelmed by a relentless rain of arrows unleashed by Rāma, whose radiant bow shone with divine power. Struck with terror, Rāvaṇa fled before Rāma’s fury, scattering like a cloud torn apart by the wind. Now begins the one hundred and first sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Yuddha Kāṇḍa. On the battlefield, Rāma witnessed a heart-wrenching sight: Lakṣmaṇa, his valiant brother, had been struck down by Rāvaṇa’s powerful spear. Blood streamed from Lakṣmaṇa’s wounds, staining the ground as he writhed in agony. Even as Rāma fought fiercely against the wicked Rāvaṇa, releasing volley after volley of arrows, his heart was torn with sorrow. He turned to Suṣeṇa and spoke in anguish, “This hero, Lakṣmaṇa, has fallen by Rāvaṇa’s strength. He writhes like a wounded serpent, and my soul is filled with grief.” Rāma’s pain grew deeper as he gazed upon Lakṣmaṇa, blood-soaked and dearer to him than his own life. “What power do I have to fight, seeing him thus? My mind is disturbed,” he lamented. “If my brother, famed for valor and blessed with auspicious marks, has departed, what use are life or happiness to me?” Rāma’s strength faltered; his bow slipped from his hand, his arrows lost their aim, and tears clouded his vision. His limbs weakened as if in a dream, and intense anxiety gripped him. Even the desire for death arose in his heart as he saw his brother grievously wounded and writhing in pain. Absorbed in grief, Rāghava gazed at Lakṣmaṇa, his beloved brother, his very life, lying unconscious. Overcome by despair, his senses bewildered, Rāma lamented the sight of Lakṣmaṇa slain on the battlefield. “Even victory brings me no joy, O hero,” he cried. “Just as the moon, unseen by the eyes, cannot give pleasure, so too does triumph mean nothing to me now.” “What use is battle, what use is life?” Rāma continued. “There is no purpose in fighting when Lakṣmaṇa lies slain at the heart of the battlefield. Just as he followed me into exile, so too shall I follow him now to the abode of Yama. He, ever devoted, always accompanied me, his beloved kinsman; now, through the deceitful warfare of the rakshasas, he has been brought to this state.” Rāma’s sorrow deepened as he reflected, “In every land there are wives and relatives, but nowhere is there a brother, born of the same mother, like Lakṣmaṇa. What is the value of kingship to me without him? How shall I speak to Sumitra, who loves her son so dearly? I will not be able to endure her reproach, nor the words of Kausalya or Kaikeyi. What shall I say to Bharata or the mighty Shatrughna? How can I return without Lakṣmaṇa, when we went to the forest together?” “Death here itself is better for me than the reproach of my kin. What evil deed did I commit in another life, that my righteous brother has been slain before my eyes? Alas, brother, best of the younger ones, foremost among heroes, lord! Why do you abandon me and go alone to the next world? O brother, why do you not speak to me as I lament?” “Rise up, look—why do you lie there? Look upon me with your eyes, so wretched and overwhelmed by grief. O mighty-armed one, who will comfort me in my sorrow?” As Rāma spoke, his senses overcome by grief, Suṣeṇa stepped forward to offer comfort. He spoke these supreme words: “O tiger among men, abandon this despairing thought and the anxiety that breeds sorrow, like arrows in the midst of battle. Lakṣmaṇa, increaser of prosperity, has not reached death. His face is not distorted, nor has it turned dark; behold his face, bright and serene.” “His hands are like the inner surface of lotus petals, his eyes are clear. Such a form is not seen in those whose life has departed, O lord of men. Do not give in to despair, O hero; this subduer of foes still has life. The signs of one who is merely asleep, his limbs relaxed upon the ground, are evident. His heart, O hero, is still breathing, trembling again and again.” Having spoken thus, the wise Suṣeṇa addressed Rāghava and turned to Hanuman, the great monkey, who stood nearby. “Gentle one, quickly go from here to the great mountain Mahodaya. As Jāmbavān previously told you, bring here the great medicinal herb that grows on the southern peak. Bring, O hero, the great herbs named Viśalyakaraṇī, Sāvarṇyakaraṇī, Saṃjīvakaraṇī, and Saṃdhānī. Bring them for the revival of the heroic Lakṣmaṇa.” Thus addressed, Hanumān sped to the mountain of herbs. But, though illustrious, he could not recognize those great herbs. Then a thought arose in Hanumān’s mind, the son of the wind, of immeasurable energy: “I will take this very peak of the mountain. By inference, I understand that the beneficial herb grows on this peak, for Suṣeṇa has spoken thus. If I go without taking the Viśalyakaraṇī, there would be harm from delay and great distress.” Thinking thus, Hanumān, of great strength, quickly reached the best of mountains and shook the summit three times. The mighty one, having uprooted the blossoming groups of various trees, seized the peak with both hands and balanced it, ready to return and save Lakṣmaṇa.