When Lakṣmaṇa urged restraint, saying, “What is the use, O best of men, in destroying all? You should recognize and eliminate only that wicked enemy,” Rāma listened. The noble Rāghava, ever wise and discerning, accepted Lakṣmaṇa’s thoughtful counsel, letting it settle in his heart. Though anger surged within him, Rāma, mighty-armed and resolute, mastered his wrath. He took up his splendid bow and turned to Lakṣmaṇa, asking, “What shall we do, dear child? Where shall we go, Lakṣmaṇa? By what means shall we find Sītā here? Consider this well.” Lakṣmaṇa, seeing his brother tormented by grief, replied with steady words, “We should search this very Janasthāna. It is teeming with many Rākṣasas, and woven with all manner of trees and creepers. There are mountain strongholds, deep ravines, and shadowy caves. These caves are dreadful, filled with wild beasts; they are also the dwellings of Kinnaras and Gandharvas. We ought to search all these places thoroughly together. Great souls like you, endowed with wisdom, do not waver in calamity—just as mountains stand unmoved by the fiercest winds.” Thus encouraged, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa began their search, combing the vast and tangled forest. As they pressed on, Rāma’s anger flared anew; he fitted a terrible, razor-sharp arrow to his bow. Then, suddenly, his eyes fell upon a sorrowful sight—the great king of birds, Jaṭāyu, resembling a mountain peak, lay fallen to the earth, drenched in blood. Rāma, seeing Jaṭāyu sprawled upon the ground like a wounded summit, spoke grimly to Lakṣmaṇa, “By this one, Sītā, the daughter of Videha, has been devoured—there is no doubt. Surely, this vulture-shaped demon roams the forest. Having eaten the wide-eyed Sītā, he now lies here at ease; I will slay him with these blazing, deadly arrows.” With fury shaking his very frame, Rāma rushed forward, arrow poised to strike. But before he could release his wrath, the bird, vomiting frothy blood, raised his voice—weak and piteous—and addressed Rāma, son of Daśaratha: “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, while you and Lakṣmaṇa were absent, I saw the lady seized by that mighty Rāvaṇa. I confronted him in battle for Sītā, O lord; his chariot and parasol were shattered, and he fell to the ground. Here lies his broken bow and his arrows; here too is his destroyed war-chariot. His charioteer lies slain by my wing. 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 kill me, for I have already been struck down by the demon.” Hearing the tale so intimately bound to Sītā, Rāma’s anger melted away. He set aside his great bow and embraced the dying king of vultures with deep affection. Overcome by sorrow, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa fell to the ground, weeping helplessly. Though steadfast by nature, Rāma was now crushed by doubled grief. Looking upon Jaṭāyu, alone on the lonely path, breathing heavily again and again, Rāma, his heart wrung with pain, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa: “The kingdom lost, dwelling in the forest, Sītā gone, the noble bird slain—such misfortune of mine could even burn fire itself. Even if I could cross the vast ocean today, surely, by my ill fate, the lord of rivers would dry up. There is no one in the world, among moving or unmoving beings, more wretched than I, caught in this great snare of calamity. This king of vultures, mighty and my father’s friend, lies slain on the ground because of my misfortune.” Thus lamenting again and again, Rāghava, with Lakṣmaṇa, gently touched Jaṭāyu, showing him the affection one gives a father. Embracing the king of vultures, whose wings were severed and whose body was soaked in blood, Rāma cried out, “Where has Maithilī, dear as life, gone?” and fell, overwhelmed, to the ground. Seeing Jaṭāyu thus felled by a cruel blow, Rāma spoke to Saumitri, his true friend, “Surely this bird, striving for my sake, was slain in battle by the demon and now gives up his life for me. Though his body is grievously wounded, life still clings to him, Lakṣmaṇa; yet, deprived of his voice, he looks upon us helplessly.” Kneeling beside the dying bird, Rāma pleaded, “O Jaṭāyu, if strength remains to speak, tell me of Sītā—and may good come to you. Tell me also of your own slaying. For what reason did Rāvaṇa abduct my noble wife? What fault did I commit, that he took my beloved? How was her face, lovely as the moon, at that time, O best of birds? What words did Sītā speak then? What is the strength, the form, the deeds of that Rākṣasa? And where is his abode, father? Tell me as I ask you.” Looking upon Rāma, who lamented like one bereft of all support, the righteous Jaṭāyu summoned his fading strength and, with faltering speech, began to answer the son of Daśaratha.