Afflicted by overwhelming grief, Rāma was as one abandoned, his heart lost in sorrow and his mind clouded by delusion. Lamenting deeply, he seemed utterly distressed, unable to find solace. After a short while, his devoted brother Lakṣmaṇa, the noble Saumitri, gently pressed Rāma’s feet, awakening him from his anguish. Lakṣmaṇa spoke with compassion, reminding Rāma of his divine origins: “By great austerity and mighty deeds, King Daśaratha, your father, obtained you, just as the gods obtain ambrosia. Bound by your virtues, O Rāma, the king—lord of the earth—attained divinity upon being separated from you, as we have heard regarding Bharata. If even you, O Kakutstha, cannot bear this sorrow, then how could anyone ordinary, weak in spirit, possibly endure such pain?” He continued, “Take heart, best of men. Who among living beings is untouched by misfortune? Like flames, troubles scorch us for a moment and then pass away. If, overwhelmed by grief, you were to unleash your energy and burn the worlds, O tiger among men, where then would the afflicted find relief? This is the nature of the world: Even Yayati, son of Nahusha, who attained the realm of Indra, was not free from misfortune. The great sage Vasiṣṭha, our father’s priest, begot a hundred sons in a single day, and all of them were lost. Even this earth, revered mother of the world, is seen to tremble, O lord of Kosala. The Sun and Moon—upholders of righteousness, eyes of the world—have suffered eclipses. Even the greatest beings and the gods themselves cannot escape fate; all embodied creatures are subject to destiny. Among the gods, Indra and others, both good and bad fortune are heard of, O tiger among men; you should not grieve. “Even if Vaidehī were dead or lost, O Rāghava, you, O hero, should not grieve as ordinary men do. Men like you, who see the truth of all things, do not constantly mourn, even in the greatest hardship, for their vision remains unwavering. Therefore, best of men, reflect with your intellect on what is real; those endowed with wisdom discern good and evil by reason. For actions whose merits and faults are unseen and whose results are uncertain, their desired fruits do not arise without effort. “O hero, you have often spoken such wisdom to me before; who could instruct you, even Bṛhaspati himself? Your intellect, O wise one, is difficult for even the gods to grasp, but as your knowledge is now clouded by grief, I am striving to awaken it. Beholding your divine and human prowess, and your own valor, O bull among the Ikṣvākus, strive for the destruction of your enemies. But what is the use, O best of men, in destroying all? You should recognize and eliminate only that wicked enemy.” Thus, in the sacred Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki, in the Aranya Kanda, the sixty-seventh chapter unfolds. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s well-spoken words, the eldest, Rāghava, who discerns the essence, accepted his brother’s profound counsel. The mighty-armed Rāma, restraining his swelling anger, grasped his splendid bow and spoke to Lakṣmaṇa: “What shall we do, dear brother? Where shall we go, Lakṣmaṇa? By what means shall we find Sītā here? Consider this carefully.” To his brother, tormented by grief, Lakṣmaṇa replied, “We should search this very Janasthāna. It is filled with many Rākṣasas, entwined with countless trees and creepers, and there are mountain strongholds, ravines, and caves. There are also many dreadful caves teeming with wild beasts, dwellings of Kinnaras, and abodes of Gandharvas. You ought to search those places thoroughly with me. Great souls like you, endowed with wisdom, O best of men, act thus. In calamities, they do not waver, like mountains unshaken by the wind.” Thus addressed, Rāma searched the entire forest with Lakṣmaṇa. Enraged, Rāma fitted a terrible, razor-sharp arrow to his bow. Then, he beheld the illustrious king of birds, resembling a mountain peak, fallen to the ground. He saw Jaṭāyu, drenched in blood, lying on the earth like a mountain summit. Seeing him, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa: “By this one, Sītā, daughter of Videha, has been devoured—there is no doubt. Clearly, this vulture-shaped demon roams the forest. Having eaten the wide-eyed Sītā, he now rests at ease; I will slay him with these blazing, deadly, straight-flying arrows.” So saying, Rāma, furious as if shaking the earth to its ocean-boundaries, rushed forward, fitting a razor-sharp arrow to his bow. At that moment, the bird, vomiting frothy blood, spoke to Rāma, son of Daśaratha, in a faint and piteous voice: “O long-lived one, as you search for the goddess in this great forest, both she and my life have been taken by Rāvaṇa. O Rāghava, with you and Lakṣmaṇa absent, I saw the lady seized by the mighty Rāvaṇa. I confronted Rāvaṇa in battle for Sītā, O lord, and his chariot and parasol were destroyed, and he fell to the ground. Here is his broken bow, and these are his arrows; and here, Rāma, is his shattered war-chariot from the fight.” Thus, in the depths of the forest, amidst sorrow and resolve, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa received the grievous news from the dying Jaṭāyu, and the path of their search for Sītā became clear.