Lakshmana, ever attentive and devoted, turned to Rama and spoke with gentle urgency, “O best of men, Vaidehī may be searching for us even now. Let us not delay—let us quickly exert ourselves to seek her out.” His voice was steady, offering comfort, “Let us search the entire forest where the daughter of Janaka may be. If you agree, O descendant of Kakutstha, do not let your heart be overcome by grief.” Hearing these words, spoken out of deep friendship, Rama composed himself. Together with Lakshmana, the son of Sumitra, he set out to search for Sita. The two sons of Dasharatha scoured every corner of the forest, traversing mountains, crossing rivers, and peering into the depths of lakes, their eyes ever searching for a sign of Sita. They climbed slopes, inspected rocks, and explored every peak of the mountain, but nowhere did they find her. Having thoroughly searched the mountain, Rama turned to Lakshmana and said, “O son of Sumitra, I do not see Vaidehī, the auspicious one, anywhere on this mountain.” Overwhelmed by sorrow, Lakshmana tried to reassure his radiant brother as they wandered the wilds of Dandaka. “You will surely regain Maithilī, the daughter of Janaka, O greatly wise one, just as mighty-armed Vishnu once regained the earth after binding Bali.” Lakshmana’s words, filled with hope and courage, reached Rama. Yet Rama, his mind heavy with sorrow, replied in a faint voice, “Though the whole forest is beautiful, adorned with blooming lotus ponds, shaded mountains, wise and full of many caves and streams, I do not see Vaidehī, dearer to me than life itself.” Thus lamenting, Rama, tormented by Sita’s abduction and overwhelmed by grief, became distraught. His whole body trembled, his mind lost in anguish. He sat down, afflicted and miserable, sighing deeply and at length. Again and again, his lotus eyes filled with tears, Rama sighed and cried out, “Alas, my beloved!”—his voice choked with emotion. Lakshmana, stricken by grief for his brother, approached with joined palms and sought in many ways to console him. But Rama, disregarding Lakshmana’s words, saw only his own sorrow and cried out for Sita again and again, unable to find solace. Now begins the sixty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Not seeing Sita, the righteous Rama—mighty-armed and lotus-eyed—was overwhelmed by grief and began to lament. As if seeing Sita before him, yet knowing she was not there, tormented by love, Raghava spoke words difficult to utter in his sorrow: “O beloved, you cover yourself with the branches of the Ashoka tree, fond of flowers—but they only increase my sorrow. O goddess, your thighs are like the stems of the plantain, hidden by leaves, yet still I see them—you cannot hide them from me. O gentle one, you play in the grove of karṇikāra trees, laughing—enough of this jesting, which brings me only pain. Especially here, in this hermitage, such laughter is not proper; I know your nature, beloved, ever fond of playful teasing.” His voice grew more desperate, “Come, O wide-eyed one, your hut is empty; surely, Sita has been eaten or carried off by the rākṣasas. She does not come to me, lamenting, O Lakshmana; look at these herds of deer, their eyes filled with tears—do you see, Lakshmana? It is as if they are telling me the goddess was devoured by night-roaming demons. Alas, my noble one, where have you gone? Alas, virtuous, beautiful lady!” His thoughts turned to Ayodhya, “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 revealed by Sita’s abduction—and by my return from the forest 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 despair; or else, I will not return 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.” Rama’s sorrow deepened, “But I could never live without Sita, not in any way; embrace Bharata tightly and tell him these words from me: ‘You are permitted by Rama to rule the earth; my mother Kaikeyi and Sumitra, O noble one, are to be cared for by you. And Kausalya, too, is to be respectfully greeted; she must be diligently protected by you, who walk the path of virtue. The destruction of Sita and myself, O destroyer of foes, must be fully reported to my mother by you.’” As the sorrowful Raghava lamented, having entered the forest without Sita of lovely hair, Lakshmana too, his face stricken with fear, became deeply distressed and greatly afflicted in mind. Now begins the sixty-third sarga. That prince, deprived of his beloved, tormented by grief and delusion, made his brother despondent with his own sorrowful appearance, and again fell into intense despair. Rama, plunged into great sorrow and overwhelmed by grief, spoke to Lakshmana—who was also overcome with sadness—uttering words befitting their misfortune, sighing deeply and weeping with anguish: “I do not think there is another on earth like me, who has committed such evil deeds; for sorrow upon sorrow, in succession, breaks my heart and mind.