The forest stood silent, heavy with sorrow, as Rama returned from his chase — victorious over the golden deer, yet unaware of the sorrow that awaited him.
His heart grew restless with every step, and the air seemed thick with an unseen grief. At last, he reached the clearing where their humble hut once stood, but the sight before him struck like lightning — the hut was empty, Sita nowhere to be seen.
Rama’s voice trembled as he called out, “Sita! O my beloved, where are you? Come forth, for the forest feels cold without you.”
There was no answer — only the soft rustling of leaves and the distant cries of birds. Fear gripped Rama’s heart. His eyes searched every shadow, every corner of the forest, but Sita’s gentle form was gone.
Lakshmana, returning too, found Rama broken, his voice rising in anguish. “O Lakshmana, my heart trembles with fear. What evil has befallen us? Where is Sita?”
Lakshmana, his own heart heavy, spoke softly, “O brother, perhaps she wanders nearby, gathering flowers. Fear not, we shall find her.”
Together, they scoured the forest, calling her name — but the trees stood silent, the rivers held no answer, and the sky seemed to mourn with them.
As they searched, they found the ground disturbed — broken branches, trampled grass, and signs of a great struggle. Rama’s face grew pale, his voice filled with grief. “O Sita, I fear the cruel hands of fate have stolen you from me.”
Then, in the distance, they saw a mighty figure lying upon the earth — wings torn, feathers scattered like fallen stars. It was Jatayu, the noble king of vultures, his life flickering like a dying flame.
Rama rushed to him, tears filling his eyes. “O great bird, what tragedy has befallen you?”
With great effort, Jatayu opened his eyes. His voice was faint, but filled with love. “O Rama… I tried… I tried to save Sita. Ravana… the king of Lanka… seized her… He flew south, carrying her away… I fought… but I am old… my wings failed…”
Rama wept, cradling the noble bird in his arms. “O Jatayu, brave and loyal friend, forgive me for not arriving sooner.”
Jatayu smiled weakly. “I die with your name on my lips… O Rama… go forth… rescue Sita… fulfill your destiny…”
With those final words, Jatayu’s eyes closed, and his soul soared high — free from pain, embraced by the heavens themselves.
Rama wept bitter tears. “O noble Jatayu, none could have done more. You shall be honored in this world and the next.”
With his own hands, Rama built a pyre of sacred wood. He lit the fire, offering prayers, and gave Jatayu a farewell fit for a king.
The flames rose high, carrying the soul of the noble bird skyward. The forest fell silent, honoring the fallen hero.
Then Rama turned, his face no longer filled with sorrow but with a fierce resolve. “Come, Lakshmana. The time for grief is over. We shall seek out Ravana — wherever he hides — and bring back Sita, or perish in the quest.”
And so, with hearts burning like fire, the two brothers set forth — the winds carrying their vow, the skies watching in silence, as the tale of Rama’s search for Sita truly began.