Lakṣmaṇa, seeing Rāma’s deep sorrow, spoke words of wisdom and comfort. He reminded Rāma that even the mighty Sun and Moon, the two upholders of righteousness and the eyes of the world upon whom all rests, have suffered eclipses. No one, not even the greatest beings or the gods themselves, can escape the workings of fate; all embodied beings are subject to destiny. Among the gods—Indra and others—both good fortune and bad are known, and so, Lakṣmaṇa advised Rāma not to grieve. He urged Rāma, saying that even if Vaidehi were lost or dead, he should not grieve like an ordinary man. Men of Rāma’s stature, who see all things clearly, do not succumb to sorrow, even in the greatest hardships, for their vision remains unwavering. Therefore, Lakṣmaṇa encouraged Rāma to reflect deeply with his intellect, for those endowed with wisdom discern good and evil by reason. Actions whose merits and faults are hidden and whose results are uncertain do not yield their desired fruits without effort. Lakṣmaṇa acknowledged that Rāma himself had often spoken such wise words before, and wondered who could instruct him—even Brihaspati, the teacher of the gods, would struggle to do so. Lakṣmaṇa recognized Rāma’s intellect as profound, difficult even for the gods to grasp, but grief had clouded his wisdom, so Lakṣmaṇa sought to awaken it. He urged Rāma, whose divine and human prowess was renowned, to strive for the destruction of his enemies. Yet, he cautioned that it was not necessary to destroy all; Rāma should recognize and eliminate only the wicked enemy responsible for this calamity. In the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Aranya Kanda, the sixty-seventh chapter, Rāma listened to Lakṣmaṇa’s well-spoken counsel and accepted his profound advice. The mighty-armed Rāghava, restraining his swelling anger, took up his splendid bow and spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, asking, “What shall we do, dear child? Where shall we go? By what means shall we find Sītā here? Consider this.” Tormented by grief, Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa, who replied, “You should search this very Janasthāna. It is filled with many Rākṣasas and entwined with various trees and creepers; here 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 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.” Thus addressed, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa searched the entire forest, unwavering in their resolve. Enraged, Rāma fitted a terrible, razor-sharp arrow to his bow. Suddenly, he saw the illustrious king of birds, Jaṭāyu, resembling a mountain peak, fallen to the ground. Jaṭāyu was drenched in blood, lying on the earth like a summit, and seeing him, Rāma said to Lakṣmaṇa, “By this one, Sītā, the 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 blazing, deadly, straight-flying arrows.” Rāma, furious as if shaking the earth to its ocean-boundaries, rushed forward, fitting a razor-sharp arrow to his bow. But Jaṭāyu, 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, both she and my life have been taken by Rāvaṇa. 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 arrows; here is his shattered war-chariot. Here lies his charioteer, struck down by my wing; and Rāvaṇa, when I was exhausted, cut off my wings with his sword. Taking Sītā, the daughter of Videha, he soared into the sky. O Rāma, do not kill me, for I was already struck down by the demon.” Hearing Jaṭāyu’s tale, Rāma put aside his great bow and embraced the king of vultures, understanding the dear story attached to Sītā. He fell helplessly to the ground and wept with Lakṣmaṇa; though steadfast, Rāma was overcome by doubled sorrow. Seeing him alone on the 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 of mine could even burn fire itself. Even if today I could cross the great ocean, surely, by my misfortune, the lord of rivers would dry up. There is no one in the world, among moving and unmoving beings, more unfortunate than I, who have fallen into this great snare of calamity. This king of vultures, mighty and my father’s friend, lies slain on the ground because of the reversal of my fortune.” Having spoken thus many times, Rāghava, with Lakṣmaṇa, touched Jaṭāyu, showing him the affection of a son.