Sītā gazed upon the wondrous creature before her, its golden skin gleaming in the sunlight. She spoke with longing, expressing her wish to worship its radiant hide, laid upon a grass mat. The intensity of her desire surprised her; she felt it was fierce and perhaps unusual for women, yet the beauty of the deer had utterly captivated her heart. She described its dazzling golden hair, its splendid jeweled horns, and its youthful color that shone like the sun. The deer’s brilliance reminded her of the starry path in the heavens. Hearing Sītā’s words and beholding the marvelous deer himself, Rāma too was struck with wonder. Enchanted by the deer’s form and urged by Sītā’s longing, Rāma, delighted, turned to his brother Lakṣmaṇa and said, “Look, Lakṣmaṇa, at Vaidehī’s eager longing. For its supreme beauty, this deer will not remain today.” He pondered aloud, “In this forest, in the groves of Nandana, nor in the retreats of Caitraratha—where on earth, O Saumitri, is there any deer equal to this one?” Rāma admired the beautiful rows of hair, shining both against and with the grain, adorned with varied golden spots. He pointed out as the deer yawned, its tongue, brilliant as a blazing flame, emerged from its mouth like a hundred-rayed cloud. Its face gleamed with sapphire and gold, and its belly resembled conch and pearls. Rāma wondered who could resist desiring such an indescribable creature. He continued, “Who, seeing this form—radiant as gold from the Jambū river, divine, adorned with various gems—would not be filled with wonder?” He recalled how kings hunted deer with bows in the great forest, both for meat and for sport. In the forest, treasures are sought—minerals, gems, and gold—just as men pursue wealth and means to increase riches, all desired in the mind, as it is for Śukra. Rāma explained, “Whatever a seeker pursues for the sake of gain, without hesitation, that is called ‘wealth’ by those skilled in the science of wealth, O noble Lakṣmaṇa.” He imagined Vaidehī, slender-waisted, sitting with him upon the priceless golden skin of this jewel among deer. He mused that neither the plantain, nor the priyaka, nor the praveṇī, nor the āvikī—none would match this deer in touch. Rāma compared the splendid earth-deer before them to the celestial deer moving in the sky, calling both divine: the star-deer and the earth-deer. Then, turning to Lakṣmaṇa, he said, “If, as you say, this is indeed a demon’s illusion, then I must slay this deer. For by this cruel Māricā, whose nature is unrighteous, the foremost sages wandering in the forest were previously harmed. Many kings, expert archers, rose up for the hunt and were slain by him; therefore, this deer must be killed.” He recalled the tale of Vātāpi, who deceived ascetics and killed brahmins from within their bellies, as a foal within its mother. Once, out of greed, Vātāpi approached the great sage Agastya, endowed with brilliance, and became his food. Rāma said, “By you, O Vātāpi, the best of brahmins were disregarded and overpowered by your might; thus you have come to old age among the living. Such a being is not a true demon, O Lakṣmaṇa, who would scorn someone like me—steadfast in righteousness and self-control—just as Vātāpi did. He will meet his end, just as Vātāpi was destroyed by Agastya. Do not go, but remain here, armed and vigilant, to guard Maithili.” Rāma reminded Lakṣmaṇa that their duty depended on Sītā; he would either slay or capture the deer. “While I go swiftly, O Saumitri, to bring back the deer, observe the longing Vaidehi has for its beautiful skin. This deer will not survive today, for its skin is its chief allure; you must remain alert in the hermitage with Sītā. As soon as I strike down this spotted deer with a single arrow, I will take its hide and return quickly, O Lakṣmaṇa. With the mighty and wise bird Jatayu circling to the right, you must remain vigilant, protecting Maithili, and be wary at every moment from all sides.” Thus, the forty-fourth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa, began. After instructing his brother, the scion of Raghu, radiant with great energy, fastened his sword made of Jambū-nada gold. He took up his triple-curved bow, his own ornament, and fastened two quivers, setting out with vigorous stride. Seeing the king of the forest rushing toward him, the king of kings—Rāma—became invisible out of fear, and then reappeared. With sword fastened and bow in hand, Rāma pursued the deer, watching it shine before him with its splendid form. He watched as it ran, bow in hand, through the great forest, noticing it sometimes behaving unnaturally, enticing him now and then. The deer seemed suspicious and agitated, leaping as if into the sky, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in parts of the forest. Like the autumn moon veiled by scattered clouds, it would appear for a moment, then shine from afar. By appearing and disappearing, Maricha, who had taken the form of a deer, drew Rāghava farther and farther from the hermitage.