Lakṣmaṇa, seeking to comfort his anguished brother, spoke words of deep wisdom to Rāma. He reminded Rāma that even Vasiṣṭha, the great sage and priest of their father, had once begotten a hundred sons in a single day—only to lose them all. Such is the nature of fate, Lakṣmaṇa said; not even the most revered and powerful beings are exempt from suffering. He pointed out that even the very earth, the mother of all the world and honored by every living being, has been seen to tremble. The Sun and the Moon, those mighty upholders of righteousness and the very eyes of the world, have themselves suffered eclipses. No one, not even the gods, escapes destiny, Lakṣmaṇa continued. Both good and ill fortune befall even the likes of Indra and other celestial beings. Therefore, Rāma, he urged, do not grieve as ordinary men do, even if Sītā were lost or dead. Men like you, who see the truth of things, do not waver in sorrow even amidst the greatest hardships, for their vision is steadfast. Reflect with your intellect on what is real, Lakṣmaṇa counseled; the wise discern good and evil by reason alone. For actions whose merits and faults are not visible, and whose results are uncertain, the fruits do not come without effort. Lakṣmaṇa reminded Rāma that he himself had often spoken such words of wisdom before, and that even the teacher of the gods, Bṛhaspati, could not instruct him further. Yet, seeing Rāma’s knowledge clouded by grief, Lakṣmaṇa sought to awaken his understanding anew. He urged Rāma to rise in his divine and human valor, and strive for the destruction of the true enemy, not to destroy all in blind fury, but to recognize and eliminate only the wicked one who had wronged them. Thus, in the Aranya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, as the next chapter begins, Rāma, hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s wise and loving words, accepted his counsel. The mighty-armed Rāghava, restraining his swelling anger, took up his splendid bow and spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, “What shall we do, dear child? Where shall we go, Lakṣmaṇa? By what means shall we find Sītā here? Consider this carefully.” To his elder brother, tormented by grief, Lakṣmaṇa replied, “You should search this very Janasthāna. It is filled with many Rākṣasas and is entwined with countless trees and creepers. There are mountain strongholds, ravines, and caves—some dreadful and teeming with wild beasts—dwellings of Kinnaras, and abodes of Gandharvas. You ought to search all these places thoroughly with me. Great souls like you, endowed with wisdom, do so. In calamities, they do not waver, like mountains unshaken by the wind.” Encouraged by these words, Rāma searched the entire forest with Lakṣmaṇa by his side. As they searched, Rāma’s anger flared, and he fitted a terrible, razor-sharp arrow to his bow. Suddenly, he saw before him the illustrious king of birds, Jaṭāyu, lying on the ground, bloodied and broken, resembling a mountain peak fallen to earth. Seeing this, Rāma said to Lakṣmaṇa, “By this one, Sītā, the daughter of Videha, has surely been devoured—there is no doubt. This vulture-shaped demon must roam the forest, preying on the helpless. Having eaten Sītā, he now rests at ease. I will slay him with blazing, deadly arrows.” With fury as if to shake the earth itself, Rāma rushed forward, fitting his razor-sharp arrow to the bow. But as he did, the bird, vomiting frothy blood, spoke to Rāma in a faint and piteous voice: “O long-lived one, as you search for the goddess in this great forest, know that both she and my own life have been taken by Rāvaṇa. O Rāghava, with you and Lakṣmaṇa absent, I saw the lady Sītā seized by the mighty Rāvaṇa. I confronted him in battle for her sake—his chariot and parasol were destroyed, and he fell to the ground. Here is his broken bow, and these are his arrows; here, Rāma, is his shattered war-chariot from the fight. His charioteer lies here, struck down by my wing. But when I was exhausted, Rāvaṇa cut off my wings with his sword. Then, taking Sītā, the daughter of Videha, he soared into the sky. Do not slay me, Rāma, for I was already struck down by the demon.” Hearing the tale of Sītā’s abduction from the dying Jaṭāyu, Rāma, setting aside his great bow, embraced the noble king of vultures. Overcome with doubled sorrow, Rāma fell helplessly to the ground and wept with Lakṣmaṇa. Though steadfast, his heart was wrung with grief. Seeing Jaṭāyu alone on that lonely path, breathing heavily again and again, the distressed Rāma spoke to Saumitri, “The kingdom lost, dwelling in the forest, Sītā gone, the bird slain—such misfortune as mine could even burn fire itself. Even if today I could cross the vast ocean, surely, by my misfortune, even the lord of rivers would dry up. There is no one in the world, among moving or unmoving beings, more unfortunate than I, who have fallen into this great snare of calamity.