In the midst of their calamity, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa stood unshaken, steadfast as mountains unmoved by the fiercest winds. Thus resolved, they searched the entire forest together, their hearts burning with worry for Sītā. As they pressed on, Rāma’s rage blazed forth; he fitted a terrible, razor-sharp arrow to his bow, ready to strike at any threat. Suddenly, his eyes fell upon a striking sight: the illustrious king of birds, Jaṭāyu, lay sprawled upon the earth, resembling a great mountain peak toppled to the ground. Rāma saw Jaṭāyu, drenched in blood, his vast form motionless like a summit stained crimson. Turning to Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma’s grief and suspicion mingled as he spoke: “By this one, surely, Sītā—the daughter of Videha—has been devoured. There is no doubt. This vulture-shaped demon must haunt the forest.” His sorrow quickly turned to wrath. “Having eaten the wide-eyed Sītā, he now rests at ease. I will slay him with blazing, deadly, straight-flying arrows!” With fury as if to shake the earth to its very shores, Rāma rushed forward, his bow strung and arrow ready. But as he approached, the dying bird, vomiting frothy blood, lifted his head and spoke to Rāma, son of Daśaratha, in a faint and piteous voice: “O long-lived one, as you search this great forest for the goddess, know that both she and my life have been taken by Rāvaṇa.” Jaṭāyu, gathering his fading strength, continued: “O Rāghava, while you and Lakṣmaṇa were absent, I saw the lady seized by the mighty Rāvaṇa. I confronted him in battle for Sītā, O lord, and in the struggle, I destroyed his chariot and parasol, and brought him crashing to the ground. Here lies his broken bow and his arrows, and here, Rāma, is his shattered war-chariot from our fight. His charioteer, struck down by my wing, lies on the ground. 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 was already struck down by that demon.” Hearing the tale so dear to him, Rāma’s anger melted into sorrow. He set aside his great bow and embraced the king of vultures. Overwhelmed by doubled grief, Rāma fell helplessly to the ground and wept with Lakṣmaṇa, his steadfastness shaken. Seeing Jaṭāyu alone on that lonely path, breathing heavily again and again, 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 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 thus poured out his grief many times, Rāghava, with Lakṣmaṇa, gently touched Jaṭāyu, showing him the affection of a son. Embracing the king of birds, whose wings were severed and whose body was soaked in blood, Rāghava cried out, “Where has Maithilī, dear as life, gone?” and fell once more to the earth, overcome. Now begins the sixty-eighth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Rāma, beholding the vulture fallen by a cruel blow, spoke to Saumitri, his true 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 gravely wounded, life still clings to 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 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, what is the form, and what are the deeds of that Rākṣasa? And where is his abode, father? Tell me, I beg you.” Looking at Rāma, who lamented like one without support, the righteous Jaṭāyu addressed him with faltering speech: “She was carried off by the king of Rākṣasas, Rāvaṇa, that evil-minded one, who employed a great illusion amidst a violent, wind-filled day. O child, when I was exhausted, that night-wanderer cut off my wings and, taking Sītā of Videha, went southward. My life is departing, my sight is reeling, O Rāghava; I see trees with golden crests, their tops scattered. In the time it takes for a moment to pass, Rāvaṇa, taking Sītā, goes—just as lost wealth is swiftly regained by its owner. That moment is called ‘Vinda,’ but O Kakutstha, he did not realize it; having taken your beloved Jānakī, Rāvaṇa, lord of Rākṣasas, like a fish that has swallowed the hook, will quickly perish. You should not grieve regarding the daughter of Janaka; you will soon rejoice with Vaidehī, having slain him on the battlefield.” As Jaṭāyu, undeluded, spoke these final words to Rāma, blood mixed with flesh flowed from his mouth as death drew near. “He is the son of Viśrava himself, and the brother of Vaiśravaṇa,” Jaṭāyu added, and then, having fulfilled his duty, the lord of birds released his hard-won life-breath. Rāma, with palms joined, kept pleading, “Speak, speak!” But as he watched, the noble bird’s life departed, leaving the body behind and ascending to the sky.