Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa stood amidst the aftermath of battle, gazing upon the broken bow, scattered arrows, and the shattered war-chariot lying on the ground—silent witnesses to the fierce struggle that had taken place. Nearby, the charioteer lay lifeless, struck down by the vulture’s wing. The king of vultures, Jaṭāyu, spoke with fading breath, recounting how, when exhaustion overtook him, Rāvaṇa, the demon king, cruelly cut off his wings with his sword. With Sītā, the daughter of Videha, in his grasp, Rāvaṇa soared into the sky. Jaṭāyu pleaded with Rāma not to slay him, for he had already been vanquished by the demon. Understanding the depth of the tale surrounding Sītā, Rāma, setting aside his great bow, embraced Jaṭāyu with the tenderness of a son. Overwhelmed by sorrow, Rāma fell helplessly to the ground and wept alongside Lakṣmaṇa; steadfast as he was, his grief was doubled. Alone on that desolate path, breathing heavily, Rāma, distressed, turned to Saumitri and lamented, “The kingdom lost, dwelling in the forest, Sītā gone, the bird slain—such misfortune could even burn fire itself. Even if today I could cross the vast 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, trapped in this great snare of calamity. This mighty king of vultures, my father’s friend, lies slain because of my reversal of fortune.” Having spoken thus many times, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa tenderly 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, Rāma cried out, “Where has Maithilī, dear as life, gone?” and fell to the earth in grief. Thus begins the sixty-eighth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Rāma, seeing Jaṭāyu fallen to the earth 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 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 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? What is the strength, the form, and the deeds of that Rakshasa? And where is his abode, father? Tell me as I question you.” Jaṭāyu, seeing Rāma lament like one without support, addressed him with faltering speech, saying, “She was carried off by the king of Rakshasas, Rāvaṇa, that evil-minded one, employing a great illusion amidst a stormy, 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 Janaki, Rāvaṇa, lord of Rakshasas, 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 Vaidehi, having slain him on the battlefield.” As Jaṭāyu spoke, blood mixed with flesh flowed from his mouth as he lay dying. He revealed, “He is the son of Vishrava himself, and the brother of Vaishravana.” With these final words, the lord of birds released his hard-to-attain life-breath. Rāma, with joined palms, kept urging, “Speak, speak,” but Jaṭāyu’s life departed, leaving the body and ascending to the sky. Placing his head on the ground, stretching out his feet, and casting his body aside, Jaṭāyu fell upon the earth. Seeing the vulture, with coppery eyes, lifeless and unmoving like a mountain, Rāma, afflicted by many sorrows, spoke to Saumitri, “For many years, dwelling happily among the Rakshasas, this bird lived here in the Dandaka forest, and now lies destroyed. He who lived for many years, arisen after a long time, now lies slain today; for time is indeed insurmountable. See, Lakṣmaṇa, this vulture, my benefactor, has been slain; he encountered Sītā, indeed, when she was seized by the powerful Rāvaṇa. Abandoning a great kingdom of vultures, inherited from his father and grandfather, this lord of birds gave up his life for my sake. Indeed, everywhere are found the virtuous, those who walk in righteousness, the brave, and those who offer refuge, O Saumitri—even among creatures born in animal forms. The sorrow caused by Sītā’s abduction, gentle one, has not affected me as much as the destruction of this vulture, who perished for my sake, O subduer of foes. Just as the illustrious King Daśaratha, my renowned father, is worthy of honor and respect, so too is this lord of birds.” “Saumitri, bring wood; I will kindle a fire and cremate the king of vultures, who has met his end for my sake.