When Lakṣmaṇa spoke to him out of deep friendship, Rāma—composed in spirit—began searching for Sītā alongside Sumitrā’s son. Together, the two sons of Daśaratha scoured the vast forests, climbed mountains, and traced the courses of rivers and the edges of lakes, seeking Sītā everywhere. They searched every slope, rock, and peak of the mountain, but Sītā was nowhere to be found. Having explored the entire mountain, Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa and said, “O son of Sumitrā, 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, “Greatly wise one, you will surely regain Maithilī, Janaka’s daughter, just as mighty-armed Viṣṇu once regained the earth after binding Bali.” Hearing these words from the heroic Lakṣmaṇa, Rāghava replied in a faint voice, his mind clouded by grief. “Though the whole forest is adorned with blooming lotus ponds, 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 Rāma lamented, tormented by Sītā’s abduction and overwhelmed by sorrow, until he became distraught. His whole body trembled, his mind lost and senseless. Afflicted and miserable, he sat down, sighing deeply and long. Again and again, Rāma—his eyes like lotuses—sighed and cried out, “Alas, my beloved!” his voice choked with tears. Seeing his dear brother so afflicted, Lakṣmaṇa approached him with joined palms, and in many ways tried to console him. But Rāma, disregarding Lakṣmaṇa’s comforting words, continued to search for Sītā, calling her name again and again. Now begins the sixty-second sarga of 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 his sorrow: “O beloved, you cover your body with the branches of the Aśoka tree, fonder of flowers—but they only increase my sorrow. O goddess, your thighs resemble the stems of the plantain, hidden by leaves, yet I see them—you cannot conceal them from me. “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 playful ways, beloved. Come, O wide-eyed one, your hut is empty; surely, Sītā has been eaten or carried off by rākṣasas. “For she does not approach me, lamenting, O Lakṣmaṇa; see these herds of deer, their eyes filled with tears, O Lakṣmaṇa. As if they are telling me that the goddess was eaten by night-roaming demons—Alas, my noble one, where have you gone? Alas, virtuous, beautiful lady! “Alas, today Kaikeyī will be satisfied, O goddess, for I have returned without Sītā, 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 Sītā’s abduction and my return from forest exile to King Janaka, lord of Mithilā. “How will I look upon the king of Videha, Janaka, when he inquires about Sītā’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 Ayodhyā. “But I could never live without Sītā, not in any way. Embrace Bharata tightly and tell him these words from me: ‘You are permitted by Rāma to rule the earth; my mother Kaikeyī and Sumitrā, O noble one, are to be cared for by you. And Kauśalyā, too, is to be respectfully greeted according to propriety; she must be diligently protected by you, who walk the path of virtue. The destruction of Sītā and myself, O destroyer of foes, must be fully reported to my mother by you.’” Thus, as the sorrowful Rāghava lamented, having entered the forest without Sītā of lovely hair, Lakṣmaṇa 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 entered into intense despair. Rāma, plunged into great sorrow and overwhelmed by grief, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa—who was also overcome by sorrow—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. Surely, I must have repeatedly committed sinful acts in the past, and now, as a result, I have fallen into this suffering, entering misery upon misery. The loss of the kingdom, separation from my kin, my father’s death, and separation from my mother—all these, when considered, Lakṣmaṇa, fill me with waves of grief.