Rama, his mind steady yet troubled, turned back swiftly toward the hermitage, his thoughts churning over how the rakshasa, disguised as a golden deer, had cunningly lured him away from Sita. Anxious and heavy-hearted, Rama made his way back to Janasthana. The forest itself seemed to share his sorrow—creatures of the woods, both animals and birds, gathered around him, sensing his distress and echoing it in their own way. As Rama walked, the great-souled one found the creatures keeping to his left, their cries ominous and dreadful. These dark portents filled Rama with foreboding, and he hastened his steps, eager to reach his hermitage. It was then that he saw Lakshmana approaching, but Lakshmana’s usual radiance was dimmed, his face clouded with worry. The two brothers drew near, both visibly distressed and burdened by sorrow. As Lakshmana arrived, Rama, pained and anxious, reproached him with words both gentle and severe. He took Lakshmana’s left hand and spoke, his voice trembling with emotion, “Ah, Lakshmana, what you have done is blameworthy—leaving Sita alone in this forest haunted by rakshasas.” “You have come here, dear brother, leaving Sita behind—may all be well! Yet, I cannot help but fear for the daughter of Janaka. She has either perished or been taken by the rakshasas who roam these woods, for everywhere I see only inauspicious omens.” “Lakshmana, will we find any trace of Sita, the daughter of Janaka, while she still lives? The deer cry out, jackals howl terribly, birds shriek from all directions—may that royal maiden be safe, O mighty one.” “That demon, appearing as a deer, drew me far from the hermitage. Only after a fierce struggle did I manage to slay him as he lay dying. Now, my heart is joyless, my mind dejected, and my left eye twitches with agitation. Without doubt, Lakshmana, Sita is gone—whether abducted, dead, or wandering lost.” Now begins the fifty-eighth sarga of the glorious Ramayana, Aranyakanda. Seeing Lakshmana standing alone and downcast, Rama, scion of Dasharatha and righteous by nature, questioned him anxiously about Vaidehi, Sita, who had not come. “She who followed me into the Dandaka forest—where is that Vaidehi, Lakshmana, whom you left behind to come here?” “As I wander this forest, exiled from my kingdom and stricken by sorrow, where is that slender-waisted Vaidehi, my companion in suffering? O hero, without her, I cannot bear to live even for a moment. Where is Sita, my life’s companion, who is like a daughter of the gods?” “O Lakshmana, even the sovereignty of the gods or the earth I would not desire without her, the radiant daughter of Janaka. Is Vaidehi, who is dearer to me than life itself, still alive? Will my exile not be in vain?” “Saumitri, because of Sita, if I am dead and you are gone, will Kaikeyi finally be happy and fulfilled? Will gentle Kausalya, bereft of her son and devoted to austerity, serve Kaikeyi, who has her son and the kingdom and has achieved her desire?” “If Vaidehi is alive, I will return to the hermitage; but if she is gone, Lakshmana, I will give up my life. If, when I reach the hermitage, Vaidehi does not greet me with a smile, Lakshmana, I will perish.” “Tell me, Lakshmana, is Vaidehi alive or not? Has that ascetic lady been devoured by the demons while you were away? Vaidehi is delicate, young, and unacquainted with suffering; surely, separated from me, she grieves, her mind troubled.” “Certainly, that cruel and wicked demon, calling out ‘Lakshmana’ in a loud voice, caused you fear. I think I heard my own voice from Vaidehi, and, terrified, she sent you, and you came quickly to me.” “By leaving Sita alone in the forest, I have surely done a terrible thing, giving the cruel demons an opportunity. The flesh-eating demons, angered by Khara’s death, have surely killed Sita—of this I have no doubt. Alas, I am plunged into misfortune, destroyer of enemies; what am I to do now? Perhaps this fate was destined for me.” Tormented by these thoughts of Sita, the noble lady, Rama hurried with Lakshmana back to Janasthana. Reproaching his younger brother, looking distressed and exhausted by hunger and thirst, sighing, his mouth parched and his spirit dejected, Rama at last reached the hermitage—but found it empty. He entered, searching the places where Sita used to walk. Recognizing her absence in their dwelling place, his hair stood on end, and he was overcome with pain. Now begins the fifty-ninth sarga of the glorious Ramayana, Aranyakanda. Returning from the empty hermitage, Rama, son of Raghu, questioned Lakshmana once more, his words heavy with sorrow. “Why have you come, leaving Maithili behind, when she, trusting you, was left alone in the forest by me?” “Seeing you return without Maithili, Lakshmana, I feared some great calamity, and my heart was deeply troubled. My left eye, arm, and heart all throb anxiously, Lakshmana, as I see you on the path, far from Sita.” Thus addressed, Saumitri, the virtuous Lakshmana, overwhelmed by sorrow, prepared to answer the grieving Rama, who stood before him, desperate for hope.