Rāma, his heart heavy with sorrow, searched desperately for Sītā. He remembered her gentle face, radiant like a lotus, and her eyes, soft as lotus petals. Often she would go to gather lotuses, but even that seemed unlikely now, for Sītā never ventured to the pond without him by her side. Perhaps, he thought, she had entered the grove of blossoming trees, alive with many kinds of birds. Yet even this seemed improbable, for the timid Sītā was always fearful of wandering alone. Consumed by anguish, Rāma called out to the Sun, the creator and knower of all the world, witness to truth and falsehood in every deed: “Reveal to me where my beloved has gone, or if she has been taken. Tell me everything, O Sun, for I am struck by grief.” Then he appealed to the Wind, whose knowledge spans all the worlds: “Tell me, O Wind, about her who guarded our lineage—whether she is dead, abducted, or wandering the path.” As Rāma, his body governed by grief and his mind clouded by lamentation, spoke thus, Saumitri, steadfast and wise, addressed him with timely and proper words: “Cast off your sorrow 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 Saumitri spoke with bold resolve, Rāma, afflicted and overwhelmed, did not heed his brother’s words. He abandoned composure and was once again overtaken by great sorrow. Now begins the sixty-fourth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Dejected, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa in a sorrowful voice: “Quickly, Lakṣmaṇa, go and find out by visiting the Godāvarī river. Perhaps Sītā went to the Godāvarī to gather lotuses.” Hearing this, Lakṣmaṇa swiftly made his way to the beautiful river. He searched its bathing places, but upon his return, he spoke to Rāma: “I do not see her at the bathing places, nor does she respond to my calls. In what place has Vaidehī, the remover of distress, arrived? I do not know, Rāma, where she is, the slender-waisted one.” Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s words, Rāma’s grief and confusion deepened. He himself approached the Godāvarī river and, standing before her, pleaded, “Where is Sītā?” But Sītā had been taken by the king of Rākṣasas, destined for death, and neither the beings nor the river revealed anything to Rāma. Though the beings urged the river to tell him about his beloved, even when asked by the grieving Rāma, the river remained silent. Thinking of Rāvaṇa’s form and the wicked deed, out of fear, the river did not reveal Vaidehī. Hopeless from the river’s silence, Rāma, tormented by his inability to find Sītā, turned to Saumitri: “This Godāvarī 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 my kin, I do not see even Vaidehī.” He gazed at the Mandākinī, Janasthāna, the spring, and the mountain, thinking the nights would be long and sleepless for him. Determined, he vowed, “I will search everywhere if Sītā can be found. These great animals, O hero, keep looking at me again and again. Here I notice their gestures, as if they wish to speak to me.” Observing them, Rāghava, the tiger among men, addressed the animals. Looking around, his voice choked with tears, he asked, “Where is Sītā?” At his words, the animals suddenly rose up, all facing south and pointing to the sky—the direction in which Maithilī had been carried away. They moved along that path, glancing back at Rāma, their gaze shifting between the path and the ground. As they made sounds while moving, Lakṣmaṇa observed all their gestures and meanings. 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. If there is any sign of her coming, or if the noble lady is seen there—” “Indeed,” replied Rāma, and together they set out toward the south. Accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa, the illustrious Rāma looked upon the earth. As the two brothers spoke, they gazed upon the path strewn with fallen flowers. Rāma saw a shower of blossoms lying on the ground and, distressed, spoke sorrowful words to Lakṣmaṇa: “I recognize these flowers, Lakṣmaṇa, that are here. These were tied by Vaidehī and given by me in the forest. I think the glorious sun, wind, and earth are preserving these flowers. They are protecting the flowers, doing what pleases me.” Having spoken thus, the mighty-armed Rāma addressed Lakṣmaṇa, the best of men, and then turned to the mountain filled with springs: “O lord of mountains, have you seen the one whose beauty is perfect in every limb?” Separated from Sītā by the mountain in this lovely forest, Rāma spoke angrily, as a lion to a small animal: “Show me Sītā, golden in hue and form, O mountain, before I destroy all your peaks.” Yet, though addressed by Rāma regarding Maithilī, the mountain, as if to show Sītā, did not reveal her to Rāghava. Thus, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa pressed onward, searching for Sītā, guided only by the signs of nature and their unwavering love.