Rāma, his heart heavy with longing, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, “I will search everywhere to find Sītā; these great animals, O hero, keep looking at me again and again.” He watched them closely and said, “Here I notice their gestures as if they wish to speak to me.” Observing their behavior, the mighty Rāghava addressed them, his voice trembling with emotion. Looking around desperately, his words caught in his throat by tears, he cried, “Where is Sītā?” At his plea, the animals suddenly rose up. All of them, facing south, pointed toward the sky—the very direction in which Maithilī had been carried away. They began to move along that path, frequently looking back at the lord of men; their glances shifted between the path ahead and the ground beneath their feet. As they went, making sounds, Lakṣmaṇa observed all their gestures and their meaning. Wise and compassionate, Lakṣmaṇa spoke softly to his elder 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 coming, or if the noble lady is seen there—” “Indeed,” replied Kakutstha, and together they set out toward the south. Accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa, the illustrious Rāma scanned the earth, and the two brothers spoke quietly to each other as they went. As they gazed upon the path, they noticed it was strewn with fallen flowers. Rāma saw a shower of blossoms lying upon the ground. Distressed, Rāma spoke sorrowfully to Lakṣmaṇa, who shared his grief, “I recognize these flowers, Lakṣmaṇa. These were tied by Vaidehī and given to me in the forest. I think the glorious sun, the wind, and the earth are preserving these flowers—they are protecting them, doing what pleases me.” Having spoken thus, the mighty-armed Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa, the best of men, and then addressed the mountain filled with springs. “O lord of mountains,” Rāma called out, “have you seen the one whose beauty is perfect in every limb? Separated from me by you in this lovely forest, Rāmā—my Sītā—has vanished!” Rāma’s voice grew angry as he addressed the mountain, like a lion confronting a lesser creature. “Show me Sītā, golden in hue and form, O mountain, before I destroy all your peaks.” But though Rāma pleaded with the mountain about Maithilī, the mountain did not reveal her to him, as if unable to show Sītā. Then Rāma, son of Daśaratha, spoke fiercely to the rocky mass, “Burned by the fire of my arrows, you will be reduced to ashes. You will be unapproachable everywhere, devoid of grass, trees, and leaves. Or today, Lakṣmaṇa, I will dry up this river, if you do not tell me today of Sītā, whose face is like the moon.” Enraged, Rāma’s gaze seemed to burn everything before him. Then, on the ground, he saw the great footprint of a rākṣasa, left by the terrified Sītā, who longed for Rāma as she ran here and there. He saw the tracks of Vaidehī, pursued by the rākṣasa, and observed the scattered footprints of Sītā and her abductor. There, too, were a broken bow, a quiver, and a chariot shattered in many pieces. Alarmed, Rāma called out to his beloved brother. “See, Lakṣmaṇa, the golden drops of Vaidehī’s ornaments scattered, and various garlands, O Saumitri. The earth everywhere is covered with bright drops like molten gold, and strange drops of blood. I think, Lakṣmaṇa, that Vaidehī has been struck, torn apart, or perhaps even eaten by rākṣasas who can assume any form.” He continued, “Because of Sītā, O son of Sumitrā, a fierce battle took place here between two quarrelling Rākṣasas. Gentle one, whose great bow, adorned with pearls and gems, beautiful and splendid, lies broken here upon the ground? Child, is this the bow of the Rākṣasas, or perhaps of the gods, radiant like the rising sun and studded with cat’s-eye gems? Whose golden armor, shattered and fallen to the earth, is this? And whose royal umbrella, with a hundred ribs and adorned with divine garlands?” He pointed further, “Gentle one, whose broken staff is this, lying on the ground? And these Kharas, with ghastly faces and golden chest-plates—terrifying in form, massive in body—whose are these, struck down in battle? And whose war-banner, shining like blazing fire, lies here? Whose war chariot is this, cast aside and broken, O gentle one? The arrows, adorned with gold, are scattered like chariot wheels.” “Lakṣmaṇa, whose are these slain arrows, dreadful to behold, scattered about? See, the two quivers are shattered and filled with arrows. Whose charioteer is this, struck down, still clutching the whip and goad? This is clearly the path of some Rākṣasa.” “See, gentle one, how my enmity with those Rākṣasas, fierce-hearted and shape-shifting, has become a hundredfold, bringing death. If Vaidehī has been taken, killed, or devoured—if the ascetic Sītā has been lost—then righteousness does not protect her, seized in this great forest. If Vaidehī has been devoured or carried off, Lakṣmaṇa, who in this world, gentle one, even among the gods, could bring me joy?” “Lakṣmaṇa, even the lord of all beings, heroic and compassionate, might be disregarded by all creatures out of ignorance.” Thus, overwhelmed by grief and anger, Rāma’s heart burned as he searched for his beloved Sītā, the forest echoing with his sorrow.