Unable to bear the thought of life without Sita, Rama was overcome with sorrow. He turned to Lakshmana and said, “Lakshmana, if I am parted from Sita, I cannot live—there is no way. Go to Bharata, embrace him tightly, and give him my words: ‘Rama permits you to rule the earth. Care for my mothers, Kaikeyi and Sumitra, O noble one. And Kausalya, too, must be respectfully greeted and diligently protected, as I command you, for you walk the path of virtue.’ Tell my mother of the destruction that has overtaken Sita and myself, O destroyer of foes.” Thus, Rama lamented as he entered the forest without Sita, whose lovely hair he so cherished. Lakshmana, seeing his brother so stricken, was himself seized by fear and distress, his mind greatly afflicted. Now begins the sixty-third sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda. Rama, deprived of his beloved and tormented by grief and delusion, made Lakshmana despondent with his sorrowful appearance. Again, he plunged into intense despair. Overwhelmed by sorrow, Rama spoke to Lakshmana, who was also overcome, uttering words befitting their misfortune. He sighed deeply, weeping in anguish: “I do not think there is another on earth like me, who has committed such evil deeds. 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—misery upon misery. “The loss of my 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. Yet all this sorrow had subsided after enduring hardship in the forest. Now, due to Sita’s separation, it flares up again, like fire suddenly kindled among dry wood. “That noble lady, frightened, must have been carried off by a demon, rising into the sky. Her sweet voice, distorted by fear, must have cried out repeatedly in terror. Her two beautiful breasts, always adorned with the finest sandalwood, must now be smeared with blood and mud—surely, my dear has fallen to such a fate. That face, with its delicate, clear, gentle speech and mass of curling hair, subdued by the demon’s power, does not shine—like the moon obscured by Rahu. The neck of my virtuous beloved, adorned with her 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 Godavari, 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. Perhaps this grove of blossoming trees, filled with many kinds of birds, she might have entered; yet even that is unlikely, for the timid one fears to go alone. “O Sun, creator and knower of the world, witness of truth and falsehood in all deeds, tell me where my beloved has gone or if she has been taken—reveal everything to me, who am struck by grief. In all the worlds, there is nothing unknown to you; tell me, O Wind, about her who guarded our lineage—whether she is dead, abducted, or wandering the path.” As Rama, his body governed by grief, unconscious and lamenting, spoke thus, Saumitri—steadfast in spirit—addressed him with timely and proper words. “Cast off sorrow now and embrace courage; let there be resolve in searching for her. For men of determination do not falter in the world, even in the most difficult tasks.” Though Saumitri spoke boldly, the afflicted scion of Raghu did not heed courage, abandoned composure, and again was overtaken by great sorrow. Now begins the sixty-fourth sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda. Rama, dejected, spoke to Lakshmana in a sorrowful voice: “Quickly, Lakshmana, go and find out by visiting the Godavari river. Perhaps Sita went to the Godavari to gather lotuses.” Thus addressed, Lakshmana, swift in movement, went to the beautiful Godavari river. He searched its bathing places, then returned and spoke to Rama: “I do not see her at the bathing places, nor does she respond to my calls. In what place has Vaidehi, the remover of distress, arrived? I do not know, Rama, where she is, the slender-waisted one.” Hearing Lakshmana’s words, Rama became dejected, overwhelmed by grief and confusion. Rama himself approached the Godavari river and, coming to her, said, “Where is Sita?” But though Sita had been taken by the king of Rakshasas, destined for death, the beings and the Godavari river did not tell Rama. Even when urged by the beings, “Tell him about his beloved,” the river did not speak of Sita, fearing the form and deed of Ravana. Made hopeless by the river’s silence, Rama, tormented by not seeing Sita, spoke to Saumitri: “This Godavari, dear one, does not answer at all. What shall I say to Janaka when I meet him, O Lakshmana? And to Sita’s mother, without her, what painful words shall I say—she who was so dear to me, living in the forest, deprived of the kingdom? Vaidehi, who removed all my sorrow—where has she gone? Now, deprived of my kin, I do not see even Vaidehi.