After traversing a vast and wild forest, searching everywhere for Maithilī, Rāma pressed on with hope wavering in his heart, yet he made every effort to find his beloved Sītā. Now begins the sixty-first sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Arriving at their hermitage, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, found the leaf-hut empty and the seats scattered, a scene deserted and forlorn. Looking everywhere but not finding Vaidehī, he cried out in anguish, clutching his lovely arms. “Where is Vaidehī, O Lakṣmaṇa? Where has she gone from here? By whom was my beloved taken, Saumitri, or by whom devoured?” he lamented. Rāma called out, hoping Sītā was merely hiding to tease him: “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-eyed young deer with whom Sītā played; now, bereft of her, they sat thinking of her in sorrow. “Deprived of Sītā, I cannot live, O Lakṣmaṇa; I am overwhelmed by the great grief of her abduction,” Rāma confessed. He thought of his father in the next world, imagining the great king seeing him, and wondered at the vows and duties Lakṣmaṇa had undertaken at his request. If anyone came to him before the appointed time, acting with selfish desires or false words, Rāma feared his father would say, “Shame on you,” seeing him helpless, tormented by grief and shattered hopes. He pleaded, “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.” His sorrow was so great, he declared, “Bereft of you, I will give up my own life.” Thus Rāma lamented, longing desperately for a glimpse of Sītā. Tormented by deep sorrow, Rāghava could not see Sītā, the daughter of Janaka; she did not come into view, and he was absorbed in grief. Lakṣmaṇa, seeing Rāma overwhelmed like an elephant sinking in deep mud, approached him with earnest words for his welfare. “Do not give in to despair, O great-minded one,” Lakṣmaṇa urged. “Strive with me. 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 the forest or a blooming lotus grove. Or she may have reached a river frequented by fish and beautiful birds, 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, illustrious one, let us quickly exert ourselves to search for her. 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.” Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s words of friendship, Rāma composed himself and together with the son of Sumitrā began their search. The two sons of Daśaratha searched thoroughly through forests, mountains, rivers, and lakes for Sītā. They searched all the slopes, rocks, and peaks of the mountain but did not find her. Having searched the entire mountain, Rāma said to Lakṣmaṇa, “O Sumitrā’s son, I do not see Vaidehī, the auspicious one, on this mountain.” Overwhelmed by sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa spoke 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.” Lakṣmaṇa’s words brought little comfort. Rāghava replied in a faint voice, his mind overcome by sorrow, “Though the whole forest is adorned, with lotus ponds blooming, and the mountain is 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, overwhelmed by sorrow, became distraught for a moment. His whole body trembled, his mind lost and senseless; he sat down, afflicted and miserable, sighing deeply and long. Again and again, Rāma, lotus-eyed, sighed and cried out, “Alas, my beloved!”—his voice choked with tears. Lakṣmaṇa, his dear companion, afflicted by grief, approached him with joined palms and tried in many ways to console him. But Rāma disregarded Lakṣmaṇa’s words, which fell from his lips, and, not seeing his beloved Sītā, cried out for her again and again. Now begins the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Not seeing Sītā, the righteous Rāma, his mind overcome by grief, lamented—mighty-armed and lotus-eyed. As if seeing Sītā, yet not seeing her, tormented by love, Rāghava spoke words difficult to utter in lamentation. “O beloved, you cover your body with the branches of the Ashoka tree, more fond of flowers—yet they only increase my sorrow. O goddess, your thighs resemble the stems of the plantain, concealed by the plantain leaves, yet I see them—you are unable to hide them. O gentle one, you play in the grove of karṇikāra trees, laughing, O goddess; enough of this jesting that only brings me pain. Especially in this hermitage, such laughter is not proper; I know your nature, beloved, fond of playful teasing.” Thus, Rāma wandered in anguish, searching for Sītā, his heart aching with love and despair, calling out to her in the lonely forest.