As Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa walked along the forest path, their eyes fell upon the ground, where fallen flowers lay scattered in a gentle shower. Rāma, troubled in spirit, gazed at the blossoms and spoke sorrowfully to Lakṣmaṇa, who shared his distress: “Lakṣmaṇa, I recognize these flowers. These are the very ones that Vaidehī strung together and I gave her here in the forest. It seems to me that the glorious sun, the wind, and the very earth have preserved these flowers out of regard for us. They are protecting them, doing what pleases me.” Having said this, the mighty-armed Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa, the best of men, and then addressed the mountain, whose slopes were rich with springs: “O lord of mountains, have you seen the one whose beauty is perfect in every limb? Separated from me by you in this lovely forest, Sītā once spoke to you in anger, as a lion might to a lesser creature. Show her to me, O mountain—Sītā, golden in hue and form—before I destroy all your peaks.” But though Rāma thus pleaded with the mountain for Sītā, the mountain did not reveal her to him, as if unable to show Maithilī to Rāghava. Then, in his anguish, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, threatened 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 else, Lakṣmaṇa, I shall dry up this very river if the mountain does not reveal Sītā, whose face is like the moon.” Rāma’s rage was so intense that he seemed to burn everything with his very gaze. Suddenly, on the ground, Rāma noticed a massive footprint—evidence of a rākṣasa—left behind as the terrified Sītā, longing for Rāma, had run in fear. He saw, too, the tracks of Vaidehī pursued by the demon, her footprints mingled with those of her pursuer. The scene before him was chaotic: a broken bow, a shattered quiver, and the remains of a chariot, splintered into many pieces. Alarmed, Rāma pointed these out to his beloved brother. “Look, Lakṣmaṇa,” he said, “see the golden drops from Vaidehī’s ornaments scattered here, and various garlands as well. The earth everywhere is strewn with bright drops, shining like molten gold, and strange drops of blood. I fear, Lakṣmaṇa, that Vaidehī has been struck, torn apart, or perhaps even devoured by shape-shifting rākṣasas.” He continued, “Because of Sītā, O son of Sumitrā, a fierce battle took place here between two quarrelling Rākṣasas. Gentle one, whose great bow is this, adorned with pearls and gems, lying broken on the ground? Is it the bow of a rākṣasa, or perhaps of the gods, radiant like the rising sun and studded with cat’s-eye gems? Whose golden armor, shattered and fallen, is this? And whose royal umbrella, with a hundred ribs and divine garlands? Whose broken staff lies here? And these terrifying Kharas, massive in body and ghastly in face, wearing golden chest-plates—whose are these, struck down in battle? Whose war-banner, shining like blazing fire, lies here? Whose war chariot is this, cast aside and broken? The arrows, adorned with gold, are scattered like chariot wheels. 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? Clearly, this is the path of some rākṣasa.” He turned to Lakṣmaṇa, pain and anger in his voice: “See, gentle one, how my enmity with these fierce-hearted, shape-shifting rākṣasas has grown a hundredfold, bringing only death. If Vaidehī has been taken, killed, or devoured—if the ascetic Sītā has been lost—then righteousness has failed to protect her, seized in this vast forest. If Vaidehī has been devoured or carried off, Lakṣmaṇa, who in this world, even among the gods, could bring me joy?” Rāma’s sorrow deepened as he spoke: “Lakṣmaṇa, even the lord of all beings, heroic and compassionate, might be disregarded by all creatures out of ignorance. Surely, the lords of the gods think me weak, because I am gentle, devoted to the good of the world, self-controlled, and compassionate. Behold, Lakṣmaṇa, my virtue has become my fault; today, it will be the destruction of all beings and the rākṣasas. Just as the great sun, when risen, withdraws the light of the moon, so, withdrawing all virtues, my power will shine forth.” He declared, “Neither Yakṣas, nor Gandharvas, nor Piśācas, nor Rākṣasas, nor Kinnaras, nor humans, Lakṣmaṇa, shall find happiness. See, Lakṣmaṇa, the sky will be filled with my weapons and arrows; today I will make it impassable for all who roam the three worlds. With the hosts of planets restrained, the moon obstructed, the fire and wind vanished, and the radiance of the sun concealed; with mountain peaks shattered, lakes drying up, trees, creepers, and thickets destroyed, and the ocean itself vanished—I shall bring the three worlds, joined with the force of Time and Death, to ruin, if the lords of the world do not return Sītā to me unharmed. In this very moment, Saumitri, they shall witness my might; no beings, O Lakṣmaṇa, shall ascend to the heavens. Behold today, Lakṣmaṇa, the world thrown into turmoil and disorder, pierced through with arrows impossible for living beings to withstand.” So Rāma, his heart burning with grief and righteous fury, stood amidst the signs of struggle and loss, vowing that the world itself would witness the power of his love and wrath.