The flesh-eating demons, tormented by the death of Khara, have surely killed Sītā—of this, Rāma was certain. Overwhelmed by misfortune, he lamented, “What shall I do now? Perhaps such a fate was destined for me.” With his heart full of anxiety for Sītā, the noble lady, Rāma hurried with Lakṣmaṇa toward Janasthāna. As they approached, Rāma reproached his younger brother, his face distressed and his spirit exhausted by hunger and thirst. Sighing deeply, his mouth dry and dejected, he finally reached the shelter, only to find it empty. Entering his own hermitage, Rāma searched the places where Sītā used to walk. Recognizing the familiar dwelling, his hair stood on end and he was overcome with pain. Now begins the fifty-ninth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Returning from the hermitage, Rāghava, son of Raghu, questioned Saumitri, his words heavy with sorrow. He asked, “Why have you come, leaving Maithilī behind, when she, trusting you, was left alone in the forest by me?” Seeing Lakṣmaṇa return without Maithilī, Rāma feared some great calamity, his heart deeply troubled. “My left eye, arm, and heart are all throbbing, Lakṣmaṇa, as I see you on the path, far from Sītā.” Thus addressed, Saumitri, the virtuous Lakṣmaṇa, overwhelmed by sorrow, spoke again to the grieving Rāma. “I did not come here of my own will, abandoning her; I was compelled by her harsh words to come to you. She cried out loudly, ‘Lakṣmaṇa!’ as if scolded by an elder, and her words, ‘Save me!’ reached my ears. Hearing that anguished cry of yours, Maithilī, out of affection for you, urged me again and again, weeping and terrified, to go quickly. Pressed by her, I was repeatedly told to go; but I replied to Maithilī with these words, full of reassurance: ‘I do not see any demon here who could bring such fear; be at ease, nothing of this kind has ever happened. 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 used, calling out in a broken tone, “Lakṣmaṇa, save me”? “Save me,” this cry, uttered out of fear by a demon, O noble lady, should not cause you distress, for it is the way of wicked women. Enough of this agitation; be calm and free from anxiety. In all three worlds, there is no man who could defeat Rāghava in battle. Whether born or yet to be born, there is none who could conquer him in combat; Rāghava is invincible in war, even to the gods led by Indra.’ Thus addressed, Vaidehi, her mind bewildered, shed tears and spoke harsh words to me: ‘Your feelings toward me are entirely sinful; with my brother lost, you will not attain me. At Bharata's signal, you pursue Rāma, and though he cries out desperately, you do not go to him. You are a hidden enemy, following me for your own ends, seeking to harm Rāghava, and so you do not approach him.’ Thus addressed by Vaidehi, Lakṣmaṇa, his eyes red with anger, lips quivering in rage, left the hermitage. To Saumitri, who spoke in this way, Rāma, overcome by grief and confusion, said, “O gentle one, you have come here without her, committing a wrong. Even though you knew I was capable of protecting against the Rākṣasas, you left Maithilī and came here, driven by words of anger. I am not pleased with you, for you abandoned Maithilī and came here after hearing harsh words from an angry woman. Indeed, you were swayed by Sītā's urging and, overcome by anger, you did not follow my command. That Rākṣasa lies slain by my arrow—he who, in the form of a deer, lured me away from the hermitage. Drawing my bow and fitting an arrow, I struck him with a swift shaft; abandoning his illusory form, his voice faltered, and that Rākṣasa, adorned with armlets, was revealed. Struck by my arrow, in a voice full of pain, he called out to me from afar with a dreadful cry—because of which you left Maithilī and came here. Now begins the sixtieth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. As Rāma hurried along, his left eye throbbed; he stumbled and faltered, trembling seized him. Observing these repeated evil omens, he kept saying, “May Sītā be safe.” Hastening, longing to see Sītā, he arrived and, seeing the dwelling empty, became deeply anxious. Raghunandana rushed about swiftly, glancing everywhere at the hermitage grounds. He saw the leaf-hut, now bereft of Sītā, stripped of its beauty, ruined like a lotus pond in winter. The trees seemed to weep; their flowers, deer, and birds all wilted. The place was desolate, abandoned by the spirits of the forest.