When Lakṣmaṇa, ever wise and devoted, beheld Rāma’s divine and human prowess, he addressed him with utmost respect, urging, “O bull among the Ikṣvākus, let your valor shine forth—strive for the destruction of your enemies.” Yet he tempered his counsel, saying, “But O best of men, what is the use in destroying all? Discern carefully and eliminate only the wicked enemy who threatens us.” In the sacred Aranya Kanda of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, as the sixty-seventh chapter unfolds, Rāma, the eldest and most discerning of the Raghus, listened deeply to Lakṣmaṇa’s well-spoken words. Accepting his brother’s profound counsel, Rāma, mighty-armed and noble, restrained the storm of anger swelling within him. He took up his splendid bow and addressed Lakṣmaṇa, his heart heavy with sorrow, “What shall we do, dear child? Where shall we go, Lakṣmaṇa? By what means shall we find Sītā here? Consider this carefully.” Lakṣmaṇa, seeing his brother tormented by grief, replied gently, “You should search this very Janasthāna, O Rāma. It is filled with many Rākṣasas, entwined with countless trees and creepers, and marked by mountain strongholds, deep ravines, and shadowy caves. There are dreadful caverns teeming with wild beasts, dwellings of Kinnaras, and abodes of Gandharvas. Let us search these places thoroughly together. Great souls like you, endowed with wisdom, do not falter in calamity—they stand firm, like mountains unshaken by the wind.” Thus encouraged, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa began to search the vast forest, their hearts burning with purpose. As they pressed on, Rāma, enraged and sorrowful, fitted a terrible, razor-sharp arrow to his bow. Suddenly, he beheld a wondrous yet tragic sight: the illustrious king of birds, Jaṭāyu, like a fallen mountain peak, lay on the ground, drenched in blood. Seeing this mighty vulture, Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa and said, “By this one, Sītā, the daughter of Videha, has surely been devoured. There is no doubt—this vulture-shaped demon roams the forest.” Convinced by grief and suspicion, Rāma declared, “Having eaten the wide-eyed Sītā, he now rests at ease. I will slay him with blazing, deadly, straight-flying arrows.” So saying, Rāma, furious as if he would shake the earth itself, rushed forward, arrow ready, his wrath unbounded. But Jaṭāyu, though vomiting frothy blood and his voice faint and piteous, called out to Rāma, “O long-lived one, as you search for the goddess in this great forest, know that 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 him in battle for Sītā’s sake, O lord, and in that struggle, his chariot and parasol were destroyed, and he fell to the ground. Here is his broken bow, here are his arrows, and here lies his shattered war-chariot from the fight. His charioteer, struck down by my wing, lies on the earth; but when I was exhausted, Rāvaṇa cut off my wings with his sword. Taking Sītā, the daughter of Videha, he soared into the sky. O Rāma, do not slay me—I have already been struck down by that demon.” Hearing the tale so dear to him, Rāma, his heart pierced with grief, set aside his great bow and embraced the dying king of vultures. Overcome, he fell helplessly to the ground with Lakṣmaṇa, his steadfastness shattered by doubled sorrow. Seeing Jaṭāyu breathing heavily, alone on that lonely path, Rāma, distressed, 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 I could cross the great ocean today, surely, by my misfortune, 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. This king of vultures, mighty and once a friend to my father, lies slain on the ground because of my ill fate.” Having spoken thus many times, Rāghava, with Lakṣmaṇa, gently touched Jaṭāyu, showing him the affection of a son. Embracing the king of vultures, whose wings were severed and whose body was soaked in blood, Rāghava cried out in anguish, “Where has Maithilī, dear as life, gone?” and fell to the ground, overwhelmed by sorrow. Now, in the sixty-eighth chapter of the Aranya Kanda, Rāma, seeing the noble bird fallen to earth by a cruel blow, spoke to Saumitri, his faithful friend, “Surely, this bird, striving for my sake, was slain in battle by the demon and is now 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.” Turning to Jaṭāyu, Rāma pleaded, “O Jaṭāyu, if you are able to speak again, tell me about Sītā—may good befall you—and also tell me of 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? What is the strength, the form, and the deeds of that Rākṣasa? And where is his abode, father? Tell me, as I question you.” Thus, with hearts heavy and hope flickering, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa awaited the dying words of the valiant Jaṭāyu, seeking any clue to guide them on the path to their beloved Sītā.