With a heavy heart, Rama turned to Saumitri and spoke: “I will lay this noble protector of the bird world upon the funeral pyre. This valiant king of vultures, who fell to the fierce demon, deserves our honor even in death.” He reflected on the destiny that awaits those devoted to sacrifice, those who tend the sacred fires, those steadfast in their duties, and those who give away land in charity. To the fallen vulture king he declared, “By me, you are permitted to go to the highest worlds, O great-spirited king of vultures. Honored by my hand, depart in peace.” Having spoken thus, Rama, righteous and grieving as one would for a beloved kinsman, placed the lord of birds upon the blazing pyre and lit the fire, performing the last rites. Then, together with Saumitri, the valiant Lakshmana, Rama ventured into the forest. There, they hunted large, great-bodied animals, offering them as a tribute to the noble bird. Gathering the flesh of these animals, cut into pieces with care, the illustrious Rama laid them before the bird on a beautiful green meadow. He performed the ancestral rites prescribed by the twice-born for those who have departed, ensuring the vulture king would ascend to heaven. Afterwards, the two sons of Dasharatha went to the banks of the Godavari river, where they offered water in honor of the king of vultures. Having bathed, the Raghavas performed the water-rite with devotion, following the sacred procedures laid out in the scriptures. Thus, the king of vultures, who had accomplished a glorious and supremely difficult deed, having fallen in battle, was honored like a great sage and attained a blessed state. With the funeral rites completed for the foremost of birds, Rama and Lakshmana, their minds fixed firmly on the search for Sita, entered the forest once more, resolute as Indra and Vishnu themselves. Now begins the sixty-ninth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Having completed the water-rite, the two Raghavas set out again in search of Sita, moving through the forest toward the west. Then, bearing their bows, arrows, and swords, they turned southward, undeterred by the challenge, and pressed onward. The forest before them was thickly overgrown with bushes, towering trees, and winding creepers, dense and difficult to traverse, surrounded on all sides, and terrifying to behold. Swiftly crossing this forbidding terrain, the two mighty warriors continued south, passing through the dreadful and vast woodland. After traveling three krośas beyond Janasthana, Rama and Lakshmana, full of energy, entered the deep Krauncha forest. It was a wondrous sight—cloud-like masses of trees, flowers of many hues adorning every side, herds of deer and flocks of birds enlivening the scene. Longing to see Vaidehi, the two wandered through the forest, pausing here and there, their hearts heavy with grief for Sita’s abduction. Continuing eastward for another three krośas, the brothers passed through the Krauncha forest and came near the hermitage of Matanga. There, they beheld a dreadful forest, teeming with fierce beasts and birds, crowded with all manner of trees, dense with mighty trunks. Amidst this wilderness, the sons of Dasaratha saw upon a mountain a cave, deep as the underworld and shrouded in perpetual darkness. Approaching the cave, those tiger-like men, not far from its entrance, encountered a rakshasi of immense form and distorted face. She was terrifying to the timid, hideous and dreadful in appearance, with a sagging belly, sharp fangs, fierce and harsh-skinned. She devoured fearsome animals, her hair wild and unkempt—a monstrous sight. Suddenly, she rushed at the brothers as they walked, seizing Lakshmana, who was in the lead. “Come, let us enjoy!” she cried, embracing him. “I am Ayomukhi by name. You are fortunate, dear to me, O hero! In these mountain fastnesses and along the riverbanks, you shall enjoy a long life with me.” But Lakshmana, enraged by her assault, drew his sword. The destroyer of foes struck swiftly, cutting off her ears, nose, and breasts. Howling in pain with a hoarse voice, the dreadful rakshasi fled the way she had come, her gruesome form vanishing into the forest. With her gone, Rama and Lakshmana, destroyers of enemies, pressed on into the dense woods, their vigor undiminished. Then Lakshmana, radiant and steadfast, spoke with joined palms to his elder brother: “My arm throbs intensely, my mind is agitated, and I observe many unfavorable omens. Noble one, be prepared and heed my words, for these signs foretell some imminent alarm. See, this bird called Vañjulaka, so dreadful, cries out as if announcing our victory in battle.” As they searched with renewed intensity, a great sound suddenly arose in the forest, as though the very woods were being shattered. The noise, swirling as if tightly bound by the wind, seemed to fill the entire woodland. Eager to discover the source, Rama, sword in hand and with Lakshmana by his side, beheld a mighty-bodied rakshasa with a vast chest. Approaching, they saw this monstrous being standing before them—headless and neckless, with a mouth upon his belly. Covered with bristling, sharp hair, towering like a great mountain, dark as a rain cloud, and terrible to behold, he let out a roar like thunder, shaking the very forest around him.