Hear now the tale of the fifty-seventh and fifty-eighth sargas of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa. After swiftly slaying Maricha, who had taken the beguiling form of a deer and could assume any shape at will, Rama turned back, eager to return to Sita, Maithili. As he hurried along the path, a jackal with a cruel voice howled behind him. The dreadful, hair-raising cry made Rama pause; suspicion arose in his heart as he pondered the jackal’s ominous call. “Alas,” thought Rama, “this jackal’s howl is surely an evil omen. May Vaidehi be safe, untouched by the rakshasas.” He worried that Lakshmana, hearing the cry—which Maricha, imitating Rama’s voice in the guise of the deer, had produced—might leave Sita and rush to him, sent by her. Rama realized that the rakshasas desired Sita’s destruction; by becoming a golden deer, they had lured him away from the hermitage. Maricha, having led him far from the shelter, called out as he died, “Alas, Lakshmana, I am slain!” Rama’s heart was troubled for Sita and Lakshmana, left alone in the forest, for he knew that his actions in Janasthana had made him an enemy of the rakshasas. Many dreadful omens appeared before him that day. Rama, reflecting on these signs and the jackal’s howl, turned back quickly, his mind self-possessed yet anxious. He hurried toward the hermitage, pondering how the rakshasa, disguised as a deer, had drawn him away. Anxiety filled Rāghava as he returned to Janasthāna; his dejection was so evident that the forest’s animals and birds gathered around him, sharing in his sorrow. Passing to his left, they uttered dreadful cries. Witnessing these terrible omens, Rāghava hastened toward his own hermitage. Soon, he saw Lakṣmaṇa approaching, his radiance faded. Lakṣmaṇa drew near, not far away. Seeing his brother equally distressed and afflicted with sorrow, Rama reproached Lakṣmaṇa as he arrived. Taking Lakṣmaṇa’s left hand, Rāghava spoke words both sweet and harsh, filled with pain: “Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, it is blameworthy what you have done, leaving her behind.” “You have come here, gentle one, leaving Sītā—may all be well! Yet, O hero, I have no doubt: the daughter of Janaka has either perished or been devoured by the rākṣasas who roam the forest. Only inauspicious omens appear before me in abundance. O Lakṣmaṇa, will we find any trace of Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, the tiger among men, while she still lives? Just as the herds of deer and dreadful jackals howl, and birds cry out around the blazing quarters, may all be well with that royal maiden, O mighty one.” “That demon, resembling a deer, lured me far away; after a great struggle, I somehow slew him as he was dying. My mind is dejected and joyless here, and my left eye twitches with agitation; without doubt, Lakṣmaṇa, Sītā is gone—either abducted, dead, or wandering somewhere.” Now listen to the fifty-eighth sarga. Seeing Lakṣmaṇa dejected and alone, the son of Daśaratha, righteous in nature, questioned him about Vaidehī, who had not come. “She who followed me when I set out for the Daṇḍaka forest—where is that Vaidehī, Lakṣmaṇa, whom you left behind and came here?” “As I wander the Daṇḍaka forest, deprived of my kingdom and stricken with sorrow, where is that slender-waisted Vaidehī, my companion in suffering?” “O hero, without her I cannot bear to live even for a moment; where is that Sītā, my companion in life, who is like a daughter of the gods? O Lakṣmaṇa, even the sovereignty of the gods or the earth I would not desire without her, the daughter of Janaka, radiant as gold.” “Is Vaidehī, who is dearer to me than life itself, still alive? Hero, will my exile not be in vain?” “Saumitri, because of Sītā, if I am dead and you are gone, will Kaikeyī be happy and fulfilled? Will gentle Kausalyā, bereft of her son and devoted to austerity, attend upon Kaikeyī, who has her son and the kingdom, and has achieved her desire?” “If Vaidehī is alive, I will return to the hermitage; but if she is gone, Lakṣmaṇa, I will give up my life. If, when I reach the hermitage, Vaidehī does not speak to me with a smile, Lakṣmaṇa, I will perish.” “Tell me, Lakṣmaṇa, whether Vaidehī is alive or not; has the ascetic lady been devoured by the demons while you were distracted? Vaidehī is delicate, young, and always unacquainted with suffering; surely, separated from me, she grieves, her mind troubled.” “Certainly, that cruel and wicked demon, calling out ‘Lakṣmaṇa’ loudly, caused you fear. I think I heard a voice like mine from Vaidehī, and, terrified, she sent you, and you quickly came to see me. By leaving Sītā alone in the forest, I have surely done a terrible thing, giving the cruel demons an opportunity to act.” Thus, Rama’s heart poured forth his anguish, sorrowfully reflecting on the loss of Sita and the cruel tricks of the rakshasas, as the forest echoed with omens and cries, and Lakṣmaṇa stood by, sharing in his brother’s despair.