Lakṣmaṇa, recognizing his brother’s sorrow-clouded mind, spoke with compassion and wisdom. “Your intellect, O great wise one, is difficult even for the gods to comprehend. But now, as your knowledge is veiled by grief, I am here to awaken it.” He continued, “Beholding your divine and human prowess, and your own valor, O bull among the Ikṣvākus, you must strive for the destruction of your enemies. Yet, what is the use, O best of men, in destroying all? You should recognize and eliminate only that wicked enemy.” As these words were spoken, the story unfolds in the Aranya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa’s well-spoken counsel, Rāma, the eldest and most discerning of men, accepted his brother’s profound advice. The mighty-armed Rāghava, restraining his swelling anger, grasped his splendid bow and addressed Lakṣmaṇa: “What shall we do, dear child? Where shall we go, Lakṣmaṇa? By what means shall we find Sītā here? Consider this well.” To his brother, tormented by grief, Lakṣmaṇa 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 those places thoroughly with me, for great souls like you, endowed with wisdom, O best of men, do so. In calamities, they do not waver, like mountains unshaken by the wind.” Thus encouraged, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa searched the entire forest together. As they moved through the wilderness, Rāma’s heart burned with rage. He fitted a terrible, razor-sharp arrow to his bow. Suddenly, his eyes fell upon the illustrious king of birds, Jaṭāyu, who resembled a mountain peak, fallen to the ground. Jaṭāyu, drenched in blood, lay upon the earth like a mountain summit. Seeing him, Rāma spoke 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.” Thus resolved, Rāma, furious as if shaking the earth to its ocean-boundaries, rushed forward, fitting a razor-sharp arrow to his bow. But the bird, vomiting frothy blood, spoke to Rāma, son of Daśaratha, in a voice faint and piteous: “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. Here lies his charioteer, struck down by my wing, on the ground; 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, you should not kill me, for I was already struck down by the demon.” Understanding the dear tale attached to Sītā, Rāma set aside his great bow and embraced the king of vultures. Helpless, he fell to the ground and wept with Lakṣmaṇa; though steadfast, Rāma was overcome by doubled sorrow. Seeing Jaṭāyu 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 full 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 the affection of a son. Embracing the king of vultures, whose wings were cut and who was soaked in blood, Rāghava cried out, “Where has Maithilī, dear as life, gone?” and fell to the ground. Now, let the sixty-eighth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa, be heard. Rāma, seeing that vulture fallen to the earth by a cruel blow, spoke these words to Saumitri, his true friend: “Surely, this bird, striving for my sake, was slain in battle by the demon and is giving up his life for me. Though his body is greatly wounded, life still remains in him, Lakṣmaṇa; yet, deprived of his voice, he looks upon us helplessly. O Jaṭāyu, if you are able to speak again, tell me about Sītā—may good befall you—and also tell me about your own slaying. For what reason did Rāvaṇa abduct my noble wife? What fault did I commit, seeing which Rāvaṇa took my beloved? How was her face, lovely as the moon, at that time, O best of birds? And what words did Sītā speak then?