Lakshmana, addressing Rama with deep emotion, explained the circumstances that led him to leave Sita behind. He said, “Brother, I did not come here of my own will, abandoning her; I was compelled by her harsh words to seek you out. Sita cried out loudly, calling ‘Lakshmana!’ as if scolded by an elder, and her desperate plea, ‘Save me!’ reached my ears. Hearing that anguished cry, Maithili, out of her affection for you, urged me again and again, weeping and terrified, to go quickly. Pressed by her, I was repeatedly told to leave, but I replied to Maithili with words meant to reassure her: ‘I do not see any demon here who could cause such fear; be at ease, nothing like this has ever happened.’ I questioned how a noble one like you could utter such a disgraceful and base cry, ‘Save me, Sita,’ when you are capable of protecting even the gods. For what reason, and by whom, was my brother’s voice used, calling out in a broken tone, ‘Lakshmana, save me’? ‘Save me,’ this cry, uttered out of fear by a demon, O noble lady, should not distress you, 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 Raghava in battle. Whether born or yet to be born, none could conquer him in combat; Raghava is invincible in war, even to the gods led by Indra. Despite my words, Vaidehi, her mind bewildered, shed tears and spoke harshly to me. She accused me, saying, ‘Your feelings toward me are sinful; with my brother lost, you will not attain me. At Bharata’s signal, you pursue Rama, 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 Raghava, and so you do not approach him.’ Thus addressed by Vaidehi, I, Lakshmana, my eyes red with anger and lips quivering in rage, left the hermitage. Rama, overcome by grief and confusion, spoke to me, Saumitri, saying, ‘O gentle one, you have come here without her, committing a wrong. Even though you knew I was capable of protecting us from the Rakshasas, you left Maithili and came here, driven by words of anger. I am not pleased with you, for you abandoned Maithili and came here after hearing harsh words from an angry woman. Indeed, you were swayed by Sita’s urging and, overcome by anger, you did not follow my command.’ Rama then described how the Rakshasa had been slain by his arrow—the one who, disguised as a deer, lured him away from the hermitage. Drawing his bow and fitting an arrow, Rama struck him with a swift shaft; abandoning his illusory form, the Rakshasa’s voice faltered, and he was revealed, adorned with armlets. Struck by Rama’s arrow, in a voice full of pain, the Rakshasa called out to Rama from afar with a dreadful cry—the cry that caused Lakshmana to leave Maithili and come to Rama. The story now continues into the sixtieth sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda. As Rama hurried along, his left eye throbbed, he stumbled and faltered, and trembling seized him. Observing these repeated evil omens, he kept saying, ‘May Sita be safe.’ Hastening, longing to see Sita, he arrived at the hermitage 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 Sita, 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 desolate and abandoned by the spirits of the forest. He saw the hermitage scattered with disordered skins and sacred grass, and the seat overturned, and he lamented again and again. Rama wondered, ‘She has been carried off, or killed, or lost, or perhaps devoured; or maybe, frightened, she is hiding, or has taken refuge in the forest. Perhaps she went to gather flowers or fruits, or perhaps she went to the lotus pond, or to the river for water.’ Though he searched the forest with all his effort, he did not find his beloved; his eyes reddened with grief, the glorious one wandered like a madman. Running from tree to tree, and also among mountains and rivers, Rama wandered, lamenting, submerged in the ocean of sorrow and grief. He called out to the Kadamba tree, ‘O Kadamba tree, have you perchance seen my beloved, who loves kadamba trees? If you know, tell me of Sita, whose face is beautiful.’ He pleaded with the Bilva tree, ‘If you have seen her, who resembles tender leaves and wears yellow silk, tell me, O Bilva tree, of her whose breasts are like bilva fruits.’ He asked the Arjuna tree, ‘Or, O Arjuna tree, tell me of my beloved, who loves arjuna trees; whether the slender daughter of Janaka is alive or not.’ Rama reflected that surely the trees know Maithili, whose thighs are like tree trunks; he admired a tree rich with creepers, leaves, and flowers, shining brightly. He observed, ‘Just as you are praised by bees, O noble tree, so this tilaka tree surely knows the one who loves tilaka trees.’ Finally, he pleaded with the Ashoka tree, ‘O Ashoka tree, remover of sorrow, my mind is afflicted with grief; quickly make your name true by granting me a sight of my beloved.’ Thus, Rama wandered the forest in anguish, searching for Sita, pouring out his sorrow to the trees, and yearning for a sign of his beloved.