His whole body trembling, his mind lost in confusion and sorrow, Rama sat down, afflicted and miserable, sighing deeply and long. Again and again, the lotus-eyed prince sighed, his voice choked with tears as he cried out, “Alas, my beloved!” The depth of his grief was overwhelming. Lakshmana, his dear companion and brother, saw Rama’s anguish and approached him with joined palms, trying in many ways to console him. Yet Rama, disregarding Lakshmana’s words, could think only of Sita. He did not see his beloved and continued to cry out for her, again and again. Now begins the sixty-second chapter of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, in the Aranyakanda. Not seeing Sita, the righteous Rama, his mind overcome by grief, lamented. Mighty-armed and lotus-eyed, he seemed as if he saw Sita—and yet did not see her. Tormented by love, Raghava spoke words difficult to utter in his lamentation. “O beloved,” he cried, “you cover your body with the branches of the Ashoka tree, fond of flowers—but 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—it only brings me pain. Especially 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 rākṣasas. For she does not approach me, lamenting, O Lakshmana. See these herds of deer, their eyes filled with tears, O Lakshmana. 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 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 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 inquires about Sita’s welfare and sees me separated from her? Tormented by the loss of his daughter, he will surely fall under the sway of 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. 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; and my mother Kaikeyi and Sumitra, O noble one, are to be cared for by you. And Kausalya, too, is to be respectfully greeted according to propriety, by my command; 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.” Thus, 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 chapter of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda. 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. Rama, plunged into great sorrow and overwhelmed by grief, spoke to Lakshmana, 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, Lakshmana, fill me with waves of grief. But all this sorrow, O Lakshmana, had subsided in my body after enduring hardship in the forest; yet now, due to Sita’s separation, it has flared up again, like fire suddenly kindled among dry wood. Surely, that noble lady, frightened, was carried off by a demon, having come near the sky; her sweet voice distorted by fear, she must have cried out repeatedly in terror. Those two breasts of my beloved, beautiful and always adorned with the finest sandalwood, must now, in their rounded form, be smeared with blood and mud—surely, my dear has fallen to such a fate. That face, with its delicate, clear, gentle speech and the mass of curling hair, now subdued by the demon’s power, does not shine—like the moon obscured by Rāhu. The neck of my virtuous beloved, adorned with the necklace, which always suited her, has surely been bitten by the demons, who, in this desolate place, break through and feed on blood. Deprived of me, in the lonely forest, she was seized and dragged away by demons; surely, she cried out in distress like a forlorn curlew, her long, lovely eyes wide as she was released. Here, together with me, she once sat on the stone slab, noble in conduct; smiling sweetly, Lakshmana, laughing aloud, Sita spoke to you with many words. This Godāvarī, foremost among rivers, was always dear to my beloved; I wonder if she went there, yet she never goes alone. With a lotus-like face and eyes like lotus petals, she would go to gather lotuses; but even that is unlikely, for she never goes to the pond without me.” Thus Rama, overwhelmed by grief and love for Sita, lamented in the forest, his heart and mind consumed by sorrow, while Lakshmana stood by, sharing in his brother’s anguish.