Rāma, his heart heavy, wished well for the two he had left behind in the forest, reflecting that through the events at Janasthāna he had become an enemy of the rākṣasas. On that day, many dreadful omens appeared—Rāma noticed them, and soon heard the unsettling howl of a jackal echoing through the forest. His mind troubled, Rāma quickly turned back, pondering how the rākṣasa, disguised as a deer, had lured him away from the hermitage. Filled with anxiety, he returned toward Janasthāna, and as he walked, the forest animals and birds gathered around him, sensing his sorrow and sharing in it. Placing the great-souled Rāma on their left, they cried out with terrible sounds, and Rāma, recognizing these ominous signs, hurried back toward his own hermitage with urgency. As he approached, he saw Lakṣmaṇa coming toward him, his usual radiance diminished. Lakṣmaṇa drew near, not far away, and Rāma, seeing his brother equally distressed and weighed down by sorrow, reproached him. Taking Lakṣmaṇa’s left hand, Rāma spoke words that were both gentle and harsh, filled with pain: “Ah, Lakṣmaṇa, it is blameworthy what you have done, leaving Sītā behind in this forest haunted by rākṣasas. 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, for only inauspicious omens appear before me in abundance.” He continued, his voice trembling: “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 the 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 begins the fifty-eighth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Seeing Lakṣmaṇa alone and dejected, Rāma, the righteous son of Daśaratha, questioned him anxiously about Vaidehī, who had not returned. “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?” He lamented further, “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.” Rāma recalled, “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. The flesh-eating demons, distressed by Khara’s death, have surely killed Sītā—of this there is no doubt. Alas, I am plunged into misfortune, destroyer of enemies; what shall I do now? I fear such a fate was destined for me.” With these thoughts weighing upon him, Rāghava, thinking ceaselessly of noble Sītā, hurried with Lakṣmaṇa to Janasthāna. Reproaching his younger brother, looking distressed and exhausted by hunger and thirst, sighing with a dry mouth and dejected spirit, he reached the shelter—and found it empty. The hero entered his own hermitage, searched some of the places where she used to walk, and, recognizing the dwelling place, his hair stood on end and he was overcome with pain. Now begins the fifty-ninth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Then, as he returned from the hermitage, Rāghava, son of Raghu, questioned Saumitri with words full of sorrow. He said, “Why have you come, leaving Maithilī behind, when she, trusting you, was left alone in the forest by me? Seeing you return without Maithilī, Lakṣmaṇa, I feared some great calamity, and my heart was deeply troubled.” Thus, Rāma’s anguish deepened, as he mourned the absence of Sītā and questioned Lakṣmaṇa, his heart filled with dread and sorrow.