As Rāma wandered through the dense forest, his heart heavy with longing and distress, he called out in anguish, "Stay, stay, O beautiful one! Have you no compassion for me? You are not one who laughs excessively—why, then, do you neglect me so?" Desperation colored his voice as he glimpsed a flash of yellow silk among the trees. "Your golden garment has revealed you, O fair-complexioned one! Though you run, I have seen you. Stay, if there is any affection in your heart!" His mind raced with worry, hope mingling with fear. "Surely, that lovely-smiling one has not come to harm. She, who has found herself in hardship, would not neglect me so, not as she ought." But soon, dark thoughts overtook him. "Alas, it is clear that my beloved, deprived of me, has been devoured by flesh-eating demons—her limbs torn apart. Surely, that radiant face, with its beautiful teeth and lips, fine nose, and lovely earrings, like the full moon, has been swallowed and lost its luster." Rāma’s grief deepened as he imagined Sītā’s fate. "That graceful neck, golden as champaka flowers and adorned with a necklace, delicate and lovely, must have been devoured as she wept. Those two soft arms, like young shoots, trembling at the tips and adorned with bracelets—surely, they too have been seized and eaten. My beloved, left alone like a caravan abandoned by its kin, has truly been consumed by demons, even though surrounded by many dear ones." He turned to his brother, crying out, "O Lakṣmaṇa, mighty-armed one, do you see my beloved anywhere? O dear one, where have you gone, gentle Sītā? O Sītā!" His voice echoed again and again through the forest. Thus lamenting, Rāma ran from one part of the forest to another, sometimes moving swiftly, sometimes stumbling in exhaustion. At times, wholly absorbed in his search, he appeared like one driven mad, rushing aimlessly through forests, across rivers, over mountains and streams, and through thick woods. After traversing a vast and endless wilderness, his hope wavering, Rāma summoned all his strength to continue the search for Maithilī. Now begins the sixty-first sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇyakāṇḍa. Returning to their hermitage, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, found the leaf-hut deserted, the seats scattered and empty. Not seeing Vaidehī anywhere, he searched frantically, then cried out in despair, grasping his lovely arms. "Where indeed, O Lakṣmaṇa, is Vaidehī? Where has she gone from here? Who has taken my beloved, Saumitri, or who has devoured her?" He pleaded, as if Sītā were hiding nearby, "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 looked at the gentle-eyed deer, her companions, and lamented, "Those young deer, with whom you played so trustingly, O gentle one, are now bereft of you, Sītā, and sit here, thinking of you." Overwhelmed by sorrow, Rāma confessed to Lakṣmaṇa, "Deprived of Sītā, I cannot live. The great grief of her abduction overwhelms me. Surely, in the next world, my father, the great king, will see me. Lakṣmaṇa, how have you, who were charged by me, fulfilled your vow?" He continued, "If one fails to fulfill the appointed time, or acts out of selfish desire, with ignoble conduct or false words—my father, in the other world, will surely say of me, ‘Shame on you,’ seeing me helpless, tormented by grief and hopeless." Turning again to the empty woods, he called out, "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 lamented, longing for even a glimpse of Sītā. Tormented by deep sorrow, Rāghava could not see the daughter of Janaka, Sītā, who did not appear and was lost to his sight. Seeing Rāma overwhelmed—like an elephant sinking in deep mud—Lakṣmaṇa, wishing for 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 delights in wandering through the woods, may have entered the forest or a blooming lotus grove. Or perhaps she has reached a river frequented by fish and beautiful birds, or, wishing to frighten us, she may be hiding somewhere nearby. Vaidehī may even be searching for you and me, O best of men. Therefore, let us quickly exert ourselves to search for her." Lakṣmaṇa encouraged, "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 comforted by his brother’s friendship, Rāma composed himself and set out to search with Sumitrā’s son. Together, the two sons of Daśaratha scoured the forests, mountains, rivers, and lakes for Sītā. They searched every slope, rock, and peak of the mountain, but did not find her. Having searched everywhere, Rāma said to Lakṣmaṇa, "O son of Sumitrā, I do not see Vaidehī, the auspicious one, on this mountain." Then, overwhelmed by sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa spoke words of hope 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 the earth after binding Bali." Thus addressed by the heroic Lakṣmaṇa, Rāghava replied in a faint voice, his mind still clouded by grief. "Though the whole forest is adorned, with lotus ponds blooming and the mountain shaded, wise and full of many caves and streams, I do not see Vaidehī, dearer to me than life itself." Thus lamenting, Rāma, tormented by Sītā’s abduction and overwhelmed by sorrow, became distraught, his spirit shaken by loss.