As Rāma wandered with Lakṣmaṇa, his eyes fell upon the trees, their branches radiant with flowers and alive with the humming of bees. It seemed as if the trees themselves called out to one another, their beauty shining greatly before them. Nearby, the kāraṇḍava bird plunged into the pure waters, delighting with his mate and kindling desire, adding charm to the scene. The Mandākinī river, renowned for her virtues, appeared especially delightful, her reputation celebrated throughout the world. Rāma’s heart stirred as he spoke to Lakṣmaṇa: “If only that virtuous lady, Sītā, were here, and we could dwell in this place, O best of Raghu’s line, I would not long for Indra’s realm nor for Ayodhyā. Enjoying these lovely meadows with her, no worry would arise in me, nor would I desire anything else.” Yet, as he gazed upon the trees, adorned with diverse flowers and foliage, his sorrow deepened. “Without my beloved, these wonders only stir up thoughts of grief within me.” He pointed out the cool waters filled with lotuses, frequented by chakravāka birds and kāraṇḍava ducks, and admired Pampā lake, shining even more brightly, filled with plava and krauñcha birds, and resounding with the calls of many creatures. The joyful birds of many kinds inflamed his longing, and he remembered Sītā, his dark, lotus-eyed beloved, whose face shone like the moon. On the lovely slopes, deer wandered with their mates, reminding Rāma of his own pain at being separated from Vaidehī, whose eyes were like those of young deer. “On this delightful hill, crowded with intoxicated flocks of birds, if only I could see my beloved, then all would be well for me,” he lamented. “Truly, O Saumitri, I could live if the slender-waisted Vaidehī, together with me, could enjoy the pure, auspicious breeze of Pampā. Blessed are those who enjoy the forest breeze of Pampā, carrying the fragrance of lotuses and blue lilies, auspicious and dispelling sorrow.” Rāma’s thoughts turned to Sītā, his beloved, dark and lotus-petal-eyed, now separated from him. “How does Janaka’s daughter, helpless, sustain her life?” he wondered. “What shall I say to the righteous king Janaka if he asks about Sītā’s welfare in the assembly?” He remembered her steadfastness, following him into exile, unwavering in righteousness. “Where now does my dear Sītā dwell? Deprived of her, O Lakṣmaṇa, how shall I, wretched, continue—she who followed me, fallen from the kingdom and with my mind distressed?” The absence of her face, with eyes like blooming lotuses, fragrant and unblemished, seemed to sink his mind into despair. “When shall I hear, O Lakṣmaṇa, the matchless words of Vaidehī—virtuous, sweet, and beneficial—adorned with gentle smiles and laughter?” He recalled the time when she, dark-complexioned and virtuous, found him tormented by love and suffering in the forest, and spoke joyfully to him, as if freed from sorrow. “What shall I say in Ayodhyā to Kausalyā, O prince, when she, wise and noble, asks, ‘Where is my daughter-in-law?’” Rāma grieved. “Go, Lakṣmaṇa, see Bharata, who loves his brothers; for I am not able to live without Janaka’s daughter.” As Rāma lamented, like one bereft of support, Lakṣmaṇa spoke fitting and unwavering words: “Compose yourself, Rāma—may all be well with you; grieve not, best of men. Such thoughts do not arise in those whose hearts are pure. Remembering the sorrow born of separation, let go of your attachment to your beloved. Even a moist wick, when embraced too closely by flame, is consumed. Even if Rāvaṇa goes to the netherworld or to a place beyond, he will not escape you, Rāghava, in any way. Let us first discover the whereabouts of that wicked Rākṣasa; then he will either release Sītā or meet his end. If Rāvaṇa goes into the womb of Diti along with Sītā, even there I will slay him, unless he returns the daughter of Mithilā. Regain your composure, noble one, and cast aside this pitiable state of mind. Lost purposes are not regained by those who make no effort. Energy is powerful, noble one; there is no strength greater than energy. For the energetic, nothing in the world is difficult to obtain. Men endowed with energy do not falter in their actions. Relying solely on energy, we shall recover Jānakī. Abandoning the ways of desire and casting grief behind you, you do not recognize yourself, the great-souled, self-controlled one.” Thus addressed by his brother, Rāma, whose mind was afflicted by grief, set aside his sorrow and delusion, and regained his composure. He, of unfathomable prowess, undisturbed, crossed the beautiful Pampā, lovely with trees growing along its banks. Surveying the entire forest with its waterfalls and caves, his heart troubled, Rāma set out with Lakṣmaṇa, weighed down by sorrow. As they walked, Rāma moved with the grace of a rutting elephant, undisturbed in mind, while Lakṣmaṇa, devoted to his brother, protected Rāghava by righteousness and by strength. Near the slopes of Ṛṣyamūka, they encountered two wondrously strange leaders of the monkey bands, who neither trembled nor stirred at their approach. The great-souled leader of the monkeys, moving with the gait of a slow elephant, saw the two wanderers and, overwhelmed by fear and anxiety, fell into deep despondency. Seeing the mighty Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa, the monkeys, frightened, approached a hermitage—holy, blissful, and a refuge—always frequented by monkey chiefs. And thus begins the second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa.