In the heart of the forest, Rāma searched desperately for Sītā. He considered every possibility, even that she might have wandered into the grove of blossoming trees, filled with many kinds of birds. Yet he doubted this, for Sītā was timid and would not venture alone. With anguish, Rāma turned to the Sun, the creator and knower of the world, the eternal witness of truth and falsehood. He pleaded, “O Sun, tell me where my beloved has gone or if she has been taken. Reveal everything to me, for grief has struck me down.” Then he called upon the Wind, who knows all things in the worlds, asking about Sītā, the guardian of their lineage: was she dead, abducted, or wandering lost? As Rāma, overcome by sorrow and nearly unconscious, lamented thus, Saumitri—steadfast Lakṣmaṇa—spoke to him with timely, proper words. “Cast off your sorrow, brother, and embrace courage. Resolve to search for her. Men of determination do not falter, even when tasks are most difficult.” Yet, despite Lakṣmaṇa’s bold encouragement, Rāma, afflicted and unable to heed these words, abandoned composure and was swept again into great sorrow. Now begins the sixty-fourth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Dejected, Rāma addressed Lakṣmaṇa in a sorrowful voice, “Quickly, Lakṣmaṇa, go and search by visiting the Godāvarī river. Perhaps Sītā went there to gather lotuses.” Lakṣmaṇa, swift and resolute, hurried to the beautiful river, searched its bathing places, but returned to Rāma and said, “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 where she is, Rāma, the slender-waisted one.” Hearing this, Rāma became even more dejected, overwhelmed by grief and confusion. He himself approached the Godāvarī and asked, “Where is Sītā?” But though Sītā had been taken by the king of Rākṣasas, destined for death, neither the beings nor the river revealed anything to Rāma. Even when urged by the beings to tell him of his beloved, the river remained silent, fearing Rāvaṇa’s wicked deed. Hopeless and tormented by not seeing Sītā, Rāma spoke to Saumitri, “This Godāvarī does not answer at all. What shall I say to Janaka when I meet him, Lakṣmaṇa? And to Sītā’s mother, without her, what painful words shall I speak—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.” Rāma lamented further, “I think the nights will be long for me as I lie awake, gazing 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’ behavior, Rāma, the tiger among men, addressed them. Looking around, his voice choked with tears, he asked, “Where is Sītā?” Suddenly, the animals rose up, all facing south and pointing to the sky—the direction in which Maithilī had been carried away. Following that path, they glanced back at Rāma, looking at the ground and the way ahead, making sounds as they went. 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,” said Rāma, and set out toward the south. Accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa, the illustrious Rāma looked upon the earth as the two brothers spoke to each other. As they gazed upon the path strewn with fallen flowers, Rāma saw a shower of blossoms lying on the ground. Distressed, Rāma spoke sorrowful words to Lakṣmaṇa, “I recognize these flowers, Lakṣmaṇa. These were tied by Vaidehī and given by me in the forest. I think the glorious sun, wind, and earth are preserving these flowers, doing what pleases me.” Having spoken thus, Rāma, mighty-armed and righteous in soul, addressed 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, like a lion to a small animal, “Show me Sītā, golden in hue and form, O mountain, before I destroy all your peaks.” But the mountain, as if to show Sītā, did not reveal her to Rāghava. Then Rāma, son of Daśaratha, spoke to the rocky mass, “Burned by the fire of my arrows, you will be reduced to ashes.” Thus, Rāma, accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa, searched the forest with anguish, seeking his beloved Sītā, guided by signs from nature and the animals, but finding only silence and sorrow.