SECTION LXIII.
That son of a king, stricken as he was with grief consequent upon separation from his dear one, was again overwhelmed with a terrible grief after causing sorrow unto his brother. Sunk in the abyss of grief, Rāma, sighing hot and weeping piteously, spoke unto Lakshmana who was equally aggrieved, words worthy of being said on that occasion. "Me thinks there is none other on this earth like me, the perpetrator of vicious crimes. My heart or soul is not riven though crushed again and again without respite with a multitude of doleful events. Surely did I perpetrate many a vicious deed in my previous birth, the fruit of which I do now suffer and in consequence whereof misfortune after misfortune hath befallen me. Coming within the compass of my remembrance, the loss of my kingdom, the death of my father, the separation of my mother and other kinsmen culminates my grief. Repairing unto woods, O Lakshmana, in Sitā's company my grief was assuaged, nay I did not suffer physical affliction even. Without Sitā these sorrows have grown anew like unto fire flaming again by means of fuel. Truly my wife, timid as she is, hath been carried away by a Rākshasa by the etherial track. Alas I doubtless it is, that one of pleasant accents, wept piteously out of fear many a time and oft. For certain my dear wife's breast round and sprinkled as it was with red sandal paste, was bathed in blood (while devoured by the Rākshasas)—but there is no death for me. That countenance the beauty of which was enhanced by a head of curly hair and which used to emit forth tender, soft and clear accents, hath become pale, being taken possession of by the Rākshasas like unto the Moon almost devoured by Rāhu. Surely have the Rākshasas subsisting on gore drunk her blood in the sky tearing oft the neck of my dear one ever devoted to pious observances. Surely did that one of beautifully expansive eyes cry aloud poorly like unto a hind when she was drawn hither and thither by the Rākshasas encircling her in the forest in my absence. O Lakshmana, sitting at the foot of this hill with me that large-hearted, pious Sitā, of smilling countenance, used to address thee on many a topic. This is Godavari, the best of rivers, my dear wife took delight in her— has she gone there?—But she never goes there alone. Or has Jānaki having eyes resembling lotus-petals hath gone to bring lotuses? But how is that possible, she never goes without me to bring lotuses. Hath she entered at her pleasure this forest filled with many flowery trees and diverse birds? But that is not possible too—she is timid and feareth much to enter alone in this forest. O Aditya, knowest thou the pious and vicious actions of men; beareth thou testimony to the truth and untruth of their actions—do thou tell me, pray, who am striken with grief, whither hath my dear one repaired, or whether hath she been killed? O Air, there is nothing on earth which is not within the compass of thy vision, do thou relate unto me whether Sitā preserving the fame of my ancestry, hath been killed or carried away or if she waiteth on the way." After Rāma had bewailed thus being beside himself with grief, Saumitri, ever treading the right path and not of poorly mind spoke words worthy of being said on that occasion.—"Do thou take heart renouncing thy grief and engage with energy in quest of Sitā. Persons of high energy are never exhausted on the earth even in the face of arduous works." The highly powerful Lakshmana having spoken thus being afflicted with grief, Rāma, the best of Raghu's descendants, did not consider that worth pondering over. Renouncing patience he again indulged in excessive grief.