Rāma, his heart heavy with sorrow, turned to Lakṣmaṇa and spoke of the grief that surged within him. “The loss of our kingdom, the separation from my family, my father’s death, and being parted from my mother—all these, when I reflect upon them, Lakṣmaṇa, send waves of pain through me. Yet, after enduring the hardships of the forest, these sorrows had quieted within me. But now, with Sītā gone, the anguish flares up anew, like a sudden fire igniting dry wood.” He continued, his voice trembling, “Surely, that noble lady, terrified, was seized by a demon and carried away through the sky. Her sweet voice, twisted by fear, must have cried out again and again in terror. I imagine her gentle breasts, once adorned with the finest sandalwood, now stained with blood and mud—such a fate may have befallen my dear one. Her face, once so radiant with delicate speech and a mass of curling hair, must now be subdued by that demon’s power, no longer shining—like the moon eclipsed by Rāhu.” Rāma’s grief deepened as he imagined Sītā’s suffering. “Her neck, always graced by a beautiful necklace, may have been wounded by these demons who haunt the lonely woods, craving blood. Bereft of me, seized and dragged away, she must have cried out like a forlorn bird, her long, lovely eyes wide with fear.” He looked around, recalling happier times. “Here, on this very stone slab, she used to sit with me, noble in her ways, smiling sweetly, laughing aloud, and speaking with you, Lakṣmaṇa, in many words. This Godāvarī river, foremost among rivers, was always dear to her. I wonder if she went there, though she never goes alone.” He searched his memories for hope. “With her lotus-like face and eyes, she would go to gather lotuses—but she never went to the pond without me. Perhaps she entered this grove of blossoming trees, filled with many birds, yet even that is unlikely, for she was always timid to go alone.” In his desperation, Rāma lifted his gaze to the heavens. “O Sun, creator and knower of all, witness to truth and falsehood, tell me where my beloved has gone, or if she has been taken—reveal everything to me, who am stricken with grief. And you, O Wind, who knows all things in the world, tell me of her—whether she is dead, abducted, or wandering the path, tell me of Janaka’s daughter, who guarded our lineage.” As Rāma, overwhelmed by grief and nearly unconscious with lament, poured out his heart, Saumitri—steadfast and wise—offered words of strength. “Cast off sorrow, brother, and embrace courage. Let us resolve to search for her. Men of determination do not falter, even in the most difficult tasks.” But though Lakṣmaṇa spoke with resolve, Rāma, consumed by anguish, could not heed his words. He abandoned his composure and again surrendered to 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 search the Godāvarī river. Perhaps Sītā went there to gather lotuses.” Thus urged, Lakṣmaṇa swiftly made his way to the river’s beautiful banks. He searched the bathing places, but found no sign of Sītā, and returned to Rāma. “I do not see her at the bathing places, nor does she answer my calls. Where has Vaidehī, the remover of distress, gone? I do not know, Rāma, where she is, the slender-waisted one.” Hearing these words, Rāma was overcome by grief and confusion. Rāma himself then approached the Godāvarī, calling out, “Where is Sītā?” But though Sītā had been carried off by the king of the Rākṣasas, destined for death, neither the beings nor the Godāvarī river revealed anything to Rāma. Even when urged by the beings to tell him of his beloved, the river, out of fear of Rāvaṇa’s wicked deed, remained silent. Hopeless and tormented by the river’s silence, Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa. “This Godāvarī does not answer at all, dear one. What shall I say to Janaka when I meet him, O Lakṣmaṇa? And to Sītā’s mother, what painful words shall I speak—she who was so dear to me, who lived with me in the forest, deprived of the kingdom? Vaidehī, who always removed my sorrow—where has she gone? Now, deprived of my kin, I do not even see her.” He gazed at the world around him. “The nights will seem endless to me as I lie awake, looking at the Mandākinī river, Janasthāna, this spring, and the mountain. I must 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.” Moved by this thought, Rāma, voice choked with tears, addressed the animals, “Where is Sītā?” At his words, all the animals suddenly rose up, facing south and pointing to the sky—the very direction in which Maithilī had been carried away. As they moved along that path, they kept glancing back at Rāma, looking from the path to the ground, making sounds as they went, their gestures full of meaning. Lakṣmaṇa, wise and compassionate, spoke to his brother, “When you asked, ‘Where is Sītā?’, these animals suddenly rose up. They are showing us the ground and the southern direction. Let us go, lord, toward this southwestern quarter. If there is any sign of her, or if the noble lady is seen there—” “Indeed,” replied Rāma, the scion of Kakutstha, and together, they set out toward the south, following the path shown by the creatures of the forest, determined to find Sītā.