As Rāma wandered through the forest, his heart heavy with longing, he approached a splendid tilaka tree, its boughs alive with bees singing its praises. With gentle reverence, he spoke, “O noble tree, just as the bees honor you, surely you must know the one who loves tilaka trees as I do.” Turning to an Ashoka tree, renowned as the remover of sorrow, Rāma cried out, “My mind is oppressed with grief. Make your name true—relieve my sorrow by granting me a vision of my beloved.” His voice trembled with hope and desperation as he moved to a Tala tree. “O Tala tree, if you have seen her—she whose breasts resemble your ripe fruits—tell me of the beautiful one, if you have any compassion for me.” He did not stop there. To the radiant Jambu tree, he pleaded, “If you have seen her, whose glow is like Jambunada gold, speak to me without hesitation if you know of my beloved.” Then, seeing the Karnikara tree in full bloom, he implored, “O Karnikara, if you have seen my virtuous beloved, who delights in your flowers, tell me, for you are splendid and wise.” Rāma’s search led him among mango, nipa, great sal, jackfruit, kurava, dhava, and pomegranate trees, his eyes scanning every branch and shadow for a sign of Sītā. He wandered on, questioning bakula, punnaga, sandalwood, and ketaka trees, his mind clouded with anguish, his actions bordering on madness. In his desperation, Rāma turned to the creatures of the forest. “O deer, do you know Maithilī, whose eyes are gentle as your own? Perhaps the lovely one, with her deer-like gaze, has sought refuge among you.” He called to the elephants, “O noble elephant, if you have seen her, whose thighs resemble your graceful trunks, tell me if you know where she is.” Even the tiger was not spared his pleas: “O tiger, if you have seen my beloved, whose face is as radiant as the moon, tell me of Maithilī without fear.” Rāma’s grief overwhelmed him, and he began to imagine that Sītā herself was fleeing from him. “Why do you run, beloved? Surely you have been seen, O lotus-eyed one. Why do you hide behind the trees and not answer me?” He called out, “Stay, stay, O beautiful one! You are not one to jest excessively—why do you neglect me?” He imagined catching a glimpse of her yellow silk garment. “You have been revealed, O fair one. Though you run, I have seen you. Stay, if you have any affection for me.” But then, despair returned. “Surely, that lovely-smiling one has not been harmed. If she had come to hardship, she would not neglect me.” His mind tormented him with dark fears. “Clearly, that young girl has been devoured by flesh-eating demons, my beloved, deprived of me, her limbs torn apart. That face, with beautiful teeth and lips, fine nose, lovely earrings—like the full moon—has been swallowed and lost its radiance. That graceful neck, golden as champaka flowers, adorned with a necklace, delicate, of my beloved who wept—she, the lovely one, has been devoured. Surely, those two arms, soft as young shoots, trembling at the tips, adorned with bracelets, were seized and devoured. The young girl, deprived of me, has truly been eaten by demons, abandoned like a caravan left behind, consumed though surrounded by many kin.” Overwhelmed, he cried out, “O Lakṣmaṇa, mighty-armed, do you see my beloved anywhere? O dear one, where have you gone, gentle Sītā? O Sītā!” Thus, Rāma called again and again, his voice echoing through the woods. He ran from forest to forest, sometimes swiftly, sometimes stumbling in exhaustion, his mind wholly absorbed in seeking Sītā. He roamed the forests, rivers, mountains, and streams, appearing at times like one maddened by grief. After traversing a vast and wild forest, searching everywhere for Maithilī, his hope flickered, yet he made every effort to find his beloved. Now begins the sixty-first sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Upon returning, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, saw the hermitage deserted. The leaf-hut stood empty, and the seats were scattered. Not finding Vaidehī anywhere, he called out in anguish, grasping his beautiful arms. “Where indeed, O Lakṣmaṇa, is Vaidehī? Where has she gone? Who has taken my beloved, O Saumitri, or by whom has she been devoured?” Clinging to a faint hope, he called out, “If you wish to mock me, Sītā, by hiding behind a tree, enough of your jesting today—come to me, who am deeply distressed.” He remembered the gentle deer with whom Sītā played. “Those young deer, with whom you played, gentle-eyed and trusting, now sit here, bereft of you, thinking of you, O gentle one.” Rāma’s sorrow deepened. “Deprived of Sītā, I cannot live, O Lakṣmaṇa. I am overwhelmed by the great grief of her abduction. Surely, in the next world, my father the great king will see me. Having made a vow, how have you, Lakṣmaṇa, been charged by me?” He lamented, “Having not fulfilled that time, if one comes here to me, or acts with selfish desires, ignoble conduct, or speaks falsely—my father, in the other world, will surely say of me, ‘Shame on you,’ seeing me helpless, tormented by grief, dejected, with my hopes shattered.” He pleaded to the absent Sītā, “Abandoning me here in sorrow, where are you going, O slender-waisted, best of women? Do not leave me, O lovely-hipped one, as fame leaves a man who is not upright. Bereft of you, I will give up my own life.” Thus Rāma, longing for a sight of Sītā, poured forth his grief. Tormented by sorrow, Rāghava could not see Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, who remained hidden and lost in her own grief. Seeing Rāma, overwhelmed as an elephant sinking in deep mud, Lakṣmaṇa, wishing to comfort him, spoke earnestly, “Do not give in to despair, O great-minded one. Let us strive together. This noble mountain is adorned with many caves. Maithilī, who delights in wandering through her beloved forests and is enchanted by the woods, may have entered a blooming lotus grove. Or she may have reached a river frequented by fish and beautiful birds, or, perhaps wishing to frighten us, she may be hiding somewhere in the forest.” Thus, Lakṣmaṇa encouraged Rāma to continue the search, their hope rekindled amidst the shadows of the forest.