Tormented by grief, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Surely, Lakṣmaṇa, I must have committed many sinful acts in my past. Now, as a result, I am plunged into this suffering—one misery after another. When I think of the loss of my kingdom, separation from my kin, my father’s death, and being parted from my mother, waves of grief fill me, Lakṣmaṇa, and overwhelm my heart. “Yet, all these sorrows had gradually subsided within me after enduring the hardships of the forest. But now, with Sītā’s separation, my pain blazes up again, like a fire suddenly kindled among dry wood. Surely, my noble wife, frightened and helpless, was carried off by a demon, rising into the sky. Her sweet voice, twisted by terror, must have cried out again and again. “I cannot help but imagine her suffering. Her beautiful breasts, once adorned with the finest sandalwood, must now be smeared with blood and mud—my beloved fallen to such a fate. The face I cherished, with its gentle words and curling hair, subdued by the demon’s power, no longer shines, like the moon obscured by Rāhu. Her graceful neck, always adorned with her favorite necklace, has surely been bitten by the demons who haunt this desolate place, feeding on blood. “Deprived of me, alone in the wild forest, she must have been seized and dragged away by those demons. I can almost hear her cries of distress, like a forlorn curlew, her long, lovely eyes wide with fear. Here, Lakṣmaṇa, she once sat with me on this very stone slab, noble in her conduct, smiling sweetly, laughing aloud, and speaking to you with many words. “This Godāvarī, foremost among rivers, was always dear to her. I wonder if she went there, though she never goes alone. With her 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 she entered this grove of blossoming trees, filled with many birds, but she is timid and fears to go anywhere alone. “O Sun, creator and knower of the world, witness of truth and falsehood in all deeds, reveal to me where my beloved has gone, or if she has been taken—tell me everything, for I am struck by grief. In all the worlds, nothing is hidden from you, O Wind. Tell me about her who guarded our lineage—whether she is dead, abducted, or wandering the path.” As Rāma, his body governed by grief and lamentation, poured out his heart, Saumitri, steadfast in spirit, addressed him with timely and proper words. “Cast off sorrow now, Rāma, and embrace courage. Let us resolve to search for her. For men of determination do not falter in the world, even in the most difficult tasks.” Yet, though Lakṣmaṇa spoke with bold resolve, Rāma, the afflicted scion of Raghu, could not heed his words. He abandoned his composure and was again overtaken by great sorrow. Now begins the sixty-fourth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Dejected, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa in a sorrowful voice, “Quickly, Lakṣmaṇa, go and see if Sītā has gone to the Godāvarī river.” Thus urged, Lakṣmaṇa, swift in movement, went to the beautiful Godāvarī. He searched its bathing places, calling out for Sītā, but found no trace of her. Returning to Rāma, he said, “I do not see her at the bathing places, nor does she respond to my calls. Where has Vaidehī, the remover of distress, gone? I do not know, Rāma, where she is.” Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s words, Rāma became all the more dejected, grief and confusion overwhelming him. Rāma himself then approached the Godāvarī river and called out, “Where is Sītā?” But though Sītā had been taken by the king of Rākṣasas, destined for death, neither the beings of the forest nor the Godāvarī river revealed anything to Rāma. Even when urged by the beings to tell Rāma about his beloved, the river remained silent, fearful of Rāvaṇa’s power and his wicked deed. Hopeless, tormented by not seeing Sītā, Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa. “This Godāvarī, so dear to us, does not answer at all. What shall I say to Janaka when I meet him, O Lakṣmaṇa? And to Sītā’s mother, without her, what painful words shall I say—she who was dear to me, living in the forest, deprived of the kingdom? Vaidehī, who removed all my sorrow—where has she gone? Now, deprived of all my kin, I do not even see Vaidehī. “The nights will be long for me as I lie awake, looking at the Mandākinī, Janasthāna, this spring, and the mountain. I will search everywhere if Sītā can be found. These great animals, O hero, keep looking at me again and again. I notice their gestures, as if they wish to speak to me.” Seeing the animals, the tiger among men, Rāghava, addressed them, his voice choked with tears. “Where is Sītā?” he asked. At his words, all the animals suddenly rose up, facing south and pointing to the sky—the direction in which Maithilī had been carried away. Moving along that path, they looked back at Rāma, glancing at the path and the ground, making sounds as they went. Lakṣmaṇa, wise and compassionate, spoke to his elder brother, “When you asked, ‘Where is Sītā?’, these animals suddenly rose up. They are showing the ground and the southern direction. Let us go, lord, toward this southwestern quarter.