Rama, his heart weighed down by sorrow and longing, spoke in anguish about the conditions by which one should approach him. “If anyone comes to me before the appointed time, or acts out of selfish desire, with ignoble conduct, or speaks falsely, it is not right,” he lamented. “If I falter now, my father in the other world will surely be ashamed of me, seeing me helpless, tormented by grief, my hopes destroyed.” Turning his thoughts to Sita, Rama cried out in despair, “Where are you going, O slender-waisted, best among women? Do not abandon me here in my sorrow, O lovely-hipped one, just as fame deserts a man who abandons righteousness. If I am bereft of you, I will give up my own life.” So Rama lamented, yearning desperately for even a glimpse of Sita. But Sita, the daughter of Janaka, did not appear before him. Consumed by grief, Rama saw her nowhere, and his mind was overwhelmed by pain. Seeing his brother so distraught—like a mighty elephant mired in deep mud—Lakshmana, ever wishing Rama’s welfare, spoke earnestly to him. “Do not yield to despair, O great-souled one. Let us strive together. This noble mountain is adorned with many caves. Maithili, who delights in wandering the forests and is enchanted by the woods, may have entered a lotus grove or ventured deeper into the woods. Perhaps she has reached a river alive with fish and beautiful birds, or maybe she is hiding somewhere, wishing to frighten us. Vaidehi may even be searching for us, O best of men. Let us quickly search for her. Let us search the entire forest where Janaka’s daughter may be. Do not let your mind be overcome by grief—if you agree, O descendant of Kakutstha, let us begin.” Encouraged by Lakshmana’s words, Rama composed himself and, together with his faithful brother, began the search. The two sons of Dasharatha searched the forests, mountains, rivers, and lakes for Sita. They scoured every slope, rock, and peak of the mountain, but Sita was nowhere to be found. Having searched the entire mountain, Rama said to Lakshmana, “O son of Sumitra, I do not see Vaidehi, the auspicious one, anywhere on this mountain.” Overwhelmed by sorrow, Lakshmana spoke gently to his radiant brother as they wandered through the Dandaka forest: “You will surely regain Maithili, the daughter of Janaka, O wise one, just as mighty-armed Vishnu once regained the earth after binding Bali.” Though Lakshmana spoke with courage and hope, Rama, his mind clouded by grief, replied in a faint voice, “Though the entire forest is adorned, with blooming lotus ponds, shaded mountains, and many caves and streams, I do not see Vaidehi, who is dearer to me than life itself.” Thus lamenting, tormented by Sita’s abduction, Rama became distraught, his whole body trembling. His mind lost and senseless, he sat down, sighing deeply, afflicted and miserable. Again and again, Rama, lotus-eyed, sighed and cried out, “Alas, my beloved!”—his voice choked with tears. Lakshmana, also stricken with grief, approached his brother with joined palms and tried in many ways to console him. Yet Rama, disregarding Lakshmana’s kind words, could not see his beloved Sita and cried out for her again and again. Now begins the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda. Not seeing Sita anywhere, Rama, mighty-armed and lotus-eyed, his mind overwhelmed by grief, continued to lament. As if seeing Sita before him, yet not truly seeing her, tormented by love, he spoke words of deep anguish. “O beloved, you cover your body with the branches of the Ashoka tree, fond of flowers—yet these only increase my sorrow. O goddess, your thighs resemble the stems of the plantain, hidden by the leaves, yet I see them—you cannot conceal them from me. Gentle one, you play in the grove of karnikara trees, laughing, O goddess—enough of this jesting that brings me only pain. In this hermitage, such laughter is not proper; I know your nature, beloved, fond of playful teasing.” “Come, O wide-eyed one, your hut is empty. Surely, Sita has been eaten or carried off by the rakshasas. She does not come to me, lamenting, O Lakshmana. See these herds of deer—their eyes are filled with tears, O Lakshmana. As if they are telling me that the goddess was devoured by night-roaming demons. Alas, my noble one, where have you gone? Alas, virtuous, beautiful lady!” “Alas, today Kaikeyi will be satisfied, O goddess, for I have returned without Sita, though I set out with her. How shall I enter my empty inner chambers? People will say I am powerless and pitiless. Indeed, my fearfulness is plainly revealed by Sita’s abduction, and by my return from exile to King Janaka, lord of Mithila. How will I be able to look upon the king of Videha, Janaka, when he asks about Sita’s welfare and sees me separated from her? Tormented by the loss of his daughter, he will surely fall into delusion. Or else, I will not go to the city ruled by Bharata. Even heaven itself, bereft of her, seems empty to me. Therefore, leaving me here in the forest, you should go to the auspicious city of Ayodhya.” Thus, Rama’s grief poured forth, his love and longing for Sita filling the forest with lamentation, as he and Lakshmana continued their desperate search.