As Rāma wandered through the forest, his heart heavy with longing, he called out into the wilderness, “Why do you run from me, beloved? Surely you have been seen, O lotus-eyed one. Why do you hide behind the trees and not answer me?” His voice trembled with both hope and despair as he pleaded, “Stay, stay, O beautiful one; you show me no compassion. You are not one given to excessive laughter—why do you turn away from me so?” He caught a glimpse of her yellow silk garment, bright against the forest’s green, and cried, “Your clothing has betrayed you, O fair-complexioned one! Though you run, I have seen you. Stay, if there is any affection in your heart!” But as he searched in vain, doubt and dread began to fill his mind. “Surely that lovely-smiling one has not been harmed,” he tried to reassure himself. “She, even if beset by hardship, would not neglect me as she ought.” But darker thoughts surged within him. “Clearly, that young girl has been devoured by flesh-eating demons—my beloved, torn from me, her limbs destroyed. That radiant face, with its beautiful teeth and lips, fine nose, and lovely earrings—like the full moon—must have been swallowed and lost its glow. That graceful neck, golden as champaka flowers, adorned with her necklace, delicate and soft, has been devoured. Surely, those two arms, soft as young shoots, trembling at the tips, adorned with bracelets, were seized and consumed. Deprived of me, the young girl has truly been eaten by demons, abandoned like a forsaken caravan, devoured though once surrounded by many kin.” With anguish, Rāma called out, “O Lakṣmaṇa, mighty-armed, do you see my beloved anywhere? O dear one, where have you gone, gentle Sītā? O Sītā!” Again and again he cried her name, his voice echoing through the woods. Thus lamenting, Rāma ran from forest to forest, sometimes moving swiftly, sometimes stumbling in exhaustion. At times, wholly absorbed in his search, he seemed like one possessed, roaming aimlessly through forests, across rivers, over mountains and streams, and through the thick woods. After traversing a vast and mighty forest, searching everywhere for Maithilī, his hope flickered uncertainly, yet he pressed on, making every effort to find his beloved. Now begins the sixty-first sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Rāma, son of Daśaratha, returned to the hermitage and found it deserted. The leaf-hut was empty, the seats scattered, and Sītā nowhere to be seen. He searched everywhere, but Vaidehī was gone. Overcome, he cried out, clutching his lovely arms, “Where indeed, O Lakṣmaṇa, is Vaidehī? Where has she gone from here? By whom was my beloved taken, or by whom devoured?” He called out again, “If you wish to mock me, Sītā, by hiding behind a tree, let your jest end now—come to me, who am so deeply distressed.” He looked to the gentle deer with whom Sītā used to play, “Those young deer, with whom you played so trustingly, O gentle one, are now bereft of you, Sītā. They sit here, thinking of you.” Turning to Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma’s grief deepened. “Deprived of Sītā, I cannot live, O Lakṣmaṇa; I am overwhelmed by the great sorrow 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 continued, “If one fails to fulfill their time, or acts with selfishness, ignoble conduct, or speaks falsely—my father, in the other world, will say of me: ‘Shame on you,’ seeing me helpless, tormented by grief and shattered hopes.” He cried out into the emptiness, “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.” So Rāma lamented, longing for even a glimpse of Sītā. Tormented by deep sorrow, Rāghava could not see the daughter of Janaka, Sītā, who remained hidden from his sight and lost in her own grief. Seeing Rāma overwhelmed, like an elephant sinking in deep mud, Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted to his brother’s welfare, 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 loves to wander and is enchanted by the woods, may have entered the forest or a blooming lotus grove. Or perhaps she has reached a river where fish and beautiful birds gather, or, wishing to frighten us, she may be hiding somewhere in the forest. Vaidehī may be searching for you and me, O best of men. Therefore, let us quickly exert ourselves to search for her.” Lakṣmaṇa continued, “Let us search the entire forest where the daughter of Janaka may be. If you agree, O descendant of Kakutstha, do not let your mind be overcome by grief.” Thus encouraged by his brother’s friendship, Rāma composed himself and began searching anew with Lakṣmaṇa at his side. The two sons of Daśaratha searched thoroughly through forests, mountains, rivers, and lakes for Sītā. They combed every slope, rock, and peak of the mountain, but she was nowhere to be found. Having searched the entire mountain, Rāma said to Lakṣmaṇa, “O Sumitrā’s son, I do not see Vaidehī, the auspicious one, anywhere on this mountain.” Overwhelmed by sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa spoke gently to his radiant brother as they wandered through the Daṇḍaka forest, “You will surely regain Maithilī, the daughter of Janaka, O greatly wise one, just as mighty-armed Viṣṇu regained this earth after binding Bali.” Thus comforted by the heroic Lakṣmaṇa, Rāghava replied in a faint voice, his mind still clouded by sorrow, “Though the whole forest is adorned, with lotus ponds in bloom, and the mountain is shaded, wise, and full of many caves and streams, I do not see Vaidehī, dearer to me than life itself.