As Rāma wandered the forest, his heart weighed down by ominous signs, he spoke anxiously to Lakṣmaṇa. “Lakṣmaṇa,” he said, “I fear Sītā has either perished or been devoured by the rākṣasas who prowl these woods. Everywhere I turn, inauspicious omens abound. Will we find any trace of Sītā, Janaka’s daughter, while her life still remains? The deer scatter in herds, dreadful jackals howl, and birds cry out from all directions—may all be well with that royal maiden, O mighty one.” He continued, his voice heavy with regret, “That demon, who took the form of a deer, lured me far from our hermitage. After a fierce struggle, I managed to slay him as he lay dying. Yet my mind is dejected and joyless, my left eye twitches with anxiety. Without doubt, Lakṣmaṇa, Sītā is gone—whether she has been abducted, killed, or is wandering lost, I do not know.” Seeing Lakṣmaṇa alone and downcast, Rāma, the righteous son of Daśaratha, questioned him about Vaidehī, who was absent. “She who followed me faithfully into the Daṇḍaka forest—where is Vaidehī, Lakṣmaṇa, whom you left behind when you came to me? As I wander here, deprived of my kingdom and stricken by sorrow, where is that slender-waisted companion of mine, who has shared my suffering?” Rāma’s pain deepened as he spoke, “O hero, without her, I cannot bear to live even a moment. Where is Sītā, my companion in life, who is like a daughter of the gods? Even the sovereignty of the gods or the earth would mean nothing to me without her, the radiant daughter of Janaka. Is Vaidehī—dearer to me than life itself—still alive? Will my exile not be in vain, O hero?” He then reflected on those left behind, “Saumitri, if Sītā is lost, if I am dead and you are gone, will Kaikeyī finally be happy and fulfilled? Will gentle Kausalyā, bereft of her son and devoted to austerity, serve Kaikeyī, who has her son and the kingdom? If Vaidehī is alive, I will return to the hermitage; but if she is gone, Lakṣmaṇa, I will give up my life. If, upon my return, Vaidehī does not greet me with a smile, I cannot go on living.” Turning to Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma pleaded, “Tell me, is Vaidehī alive or not? Has the ascetic lady been devoured by the demons while you were away? She is delicate, young, and unaccustomed to suffering; surely, separated from me, she grieves, her mind troubled. That cruel and wicked demon, calling out ‘Lakṣmaṇa’ in my voice, must have frightened you. I thought I heard my own voice from Vaidehī, and, terrified, she sent you to me, so you hurried here.” With deep remorse, Rāma lamented, “By leaving Sītā alone in the forest, I have done a terrible thing, giving the cruel demons a chance to act. Those flesh-eating rākṣasas, furious over Khara’s death, have surely killed Sītā—of this I have no doubt. Alas, I am plunged into misfortune, O destroyer of enemies; what am I to do now? Perhaps such a fate was destined for me.” Tormented by these thoughts, Rāma hastened with Lakṣmaṇa to Janasthāna. Reproaching his younger brother, distressed and exhausted by hunger and thirst, he sighed, his mouth parched and his spirit dejected, until they reached their shelter—only to find it empty. Rāma entered his hermitage, searching the places where Sītā once walked. As he recognized the familiar dwelling, his hair stood on end and he was overcome with pain. Returning from the empty hermitage, Rāma, son of the Raghu line, questioned Lakṣmaṇa with sorrowful words. “Why have you come, leaving Maithilī behind, when she, trusting you, was left alone in the forest by me? Seeing you return without her, Lakṣmaṇa, I feared some great calamity, and my heart was deeply troubled. My left eye, arm, and heart all throb as I see you on this path, far from Sītā.” Lakṣmaṇa, virtuous and overwhelmed by grief, replied to Rāma’s lament. “O noble brother, I did not come here of my own will, abandoning her; I was compelled by her harsh words to seek you. She cried out loudly, ‘Lakṣmaṇa!’ as if scolded by an elder, and her desperate words, ‘Save me!’ reached my ears. Hearing that anguished cry, Maithilī, out of her love for you, urged me again and again, weeping and terrified, to go quickly to your side.” Lakṣmaṇa explained, “Pressed by her, I was told repeatedly to go; but I reassured her, saying, ‘I do not see any demon here who could bring such fear; be at ease, nothing like this has ever happened before. How could a noble one utter such a disgraceful and base cry, “Save me, Sītā,” when he could protect even the gods? For what reason, and by whom, was my brother’s voice imitated, calling out in a broken tone, “Lakṣmaṇa, save me”? This cry, uttered out of fear by a demon, O noble lady, should not cause you distress—it is the way of the wicked rākṣasas.’” Thus, the brothers stood in their sorrow, the absence of Sītā cutting deeply into their hearts, as the dark forest echoed with the consequences of fate and the schemes of the rākṣasas.