हनूमत्परिचयो रामेण तत्प्रशंसा च

Having grasped what great-souled Sugrīva meant, Hanumān leapt from Mount Ṛṣyamūka to where the two Rāghavas were. "Grasped" is the point: he did not merely hear the order but understood its purpose, and that is the first virtue of a good envoy. Thinking that in monkey form he would win no trust, the son of the Wind set aside his own shape and, with a shrewd mind, took on the guise of a wandering mendicant. The word the poet uses for his cunning does not condemn deceit; it shows the practical skill of one engaged in his master's business. Then, approaching humbly, he bowed to the two Rāghavas and addressed them in a smooth and most pleasing voice, praising them as they deserved. Having honoured them in due form, the best of monkeys spoke freely and gently to those two of true valour, ascetics of strict vows who looked like royal sages and gods. Bowing, praise, honour and gentle words: in four steps the envoy opens the conversation. This carries out Sugrīva's order in the last sarga to go as an ordinary man and find out who they were — but Hanumān chooses the dress of a mendicant rather than of an ordinary man, understanding that ascetics are best met in an ascetic's guise. Here, for the first time, the envoy's own independent judgement shines out, and his honouring them in due form shows his courtesy.

"How have you two, so fair of complexion, come to this country, frightening the herds of deer and the other creatures of the forest, gazing all round at the trees on Pampā's bank and gracing this river of lovely water, swift ones? Who are you, steadfast and golden-hued, dressed in bark, sighing deeply, strong-armed, troubling the creatures here? You are heroes with a lion's gaze, of great strength and valour, destroyers of foes, holding bows like Indra's own; splendid and handsome, with the stride of the finest bulls, arms like elephants' trunks, radiant bulls among men." Hanumān begins by describing what is plain before him: the dress is an ascetic's but the splendour a king's; the sighs are of grief but the arms a warrior's. That contrast is the root of his question. With three comparisons — lion, bull and elephant — he pictures in turn their gaze, their stride and their arms. He asks the question over and over — how did you come, who are you — and so opens the door to conversation. In truth he already more or less knows who they are, yet he wants to hear it from their own lips; this is an envoy's skill. His words "frightening" and "troubling" carry a gentle reproach too, that their coming has disturbed a peaceful forest. "Golden-hued" shows a splendour that even austerity has not dimmed, "sighing" the grief within; seeing outer radiance and inner sorrow together, Hanumān is filled with wonder.

"This king of mountains is lit up by your radiance. You are like immortals and fit to be kings — how have you come to this country? Lotus-eyed heroes wearing coils of matted hair, each the very likeness of the other, have you come here from the world of the gods? Broad-chested, human yet godlike, you seem like the moon and the sun come down by chance to earth. You have lions' shoulders, great energy, you are like two rutting bulls, and your arms are long, rounded and like iron bars. Worthy of every ornament, why are they bare of ornaments? I think you two are fit to guard this whole earth with its seas and forests, adorned by the Vindhya and by Meru." Here Hanumān tests them under cover of praise: by asking why men fit for kingship live in the forest, he draws out their story. The bare arms are a subtle hint — he guesses they have given up a kingdom. As Sugrīva had ordered, trust is won by praise, and purpose is sought by questions. "Have you come from the world of the gods?" is the height of his praise, and the moon and sun suggest the difference in their radiance — Rāma cool like the moon, Lakṣmaṇa fierce like the sun. "Human yet godlike" betrays his own uncertainty: they are men, but with the look of gods. The picture of the earth with its seas and mountains shows how vast a kingdom he thinks them fit for. Once more the same contrast appears — matted hair, the ascetic's sign, and lotus eyes, the mark of a king.

"And these two bows of yours are wonderful, polished, finely inlaid and adorned with gold; they shine like Indra's thunderbolts. Your quivers are full of sharp arrows, fair to see, terrible arrows that end life, like blazing serpents. And these two swords, huge and broad, mounted in refined gold, shine like snakes that have cast off their slough." This long description of their weapons works two ways, as praise and as suspicion, for what need has an ascetic of weapons? The serpent image is used again and again — the arrows like blazing serpents, the swords like snakes new from their skins — so that the weapons are shown as both terrible and beautiful, and the inlaid bows are a mark of royalty. At the end Hanumān asks why they are silent: "When I speak to you like this, why do you not answer me?" He has said much and heard nothing, and this is the envoy's courteous reproach.

"There is a righteous monkey chief named Sugrīva, a hero wronged by his brother, who wanders the world in sorrow. I have come here sent by great-souled Sugrīva, king of the foremost monkeys; I am a monkey named Hanumān. Righteous Sugrīva wants your friendship. Know me for his counsellor, a monkey, the son of the Wind, disguised as a mendicant for Sugrīva's sake, who have come here from Ṛṣyamūka and can go where I please and take what shape I please." The envoy introduces first his master and then himself; first he states his purpose — Sugrīva seeks friendship — and last he himself reveals the reason for his disguise, so that no suspicion of trickery remains. Having said this to the two heroes, Hanumān, master of words and skilled in speech, said nothing more; to fall silent once the message is delivered is also an envoy's virtue. He speaks of his master modestly, as "a monkey chief named Sugrīva", for too much praise does not become an envoy, while "wanders the world in sorrow" stirs compassion. In saying he goes and changes shape at will, he hints at his power as the Wind's son, yet shows no pride. The order of his speech is skilful: first his master's sorrow, then his own mission, then the request for friendship, and last the reason for his disguise.

Hearing his words, the illustrious Rāma, his face bright with joy, said to his brother at his side: "This is the counsellor of great-souled Sugrīva, lord of the monkeys, the very one I was longing to meet, and he has come to me." The poet hints that fate is now favourable: the envoy of the very one they set out to find has come to them of his own accord. "Saumitri, answer this monkey, Sugrīva's counsellor, who knows how to speak, with sweet and friendly words, subduer of foes." Rāma does not speak himself but asks Lakṣmaṇa to — a matter of propriety, either because in a first meeting the younger should speak, or because an envoy is to be answered in the manner of an envoy. His joyful face is the first gladness seen on it for a long time, and even the manner of the reply, sweet and friendly, is laid down.

"No one who had not been trained in the Ṛgveda, who had not mastered the Yajurveda, who was not learned in the Sāmaveda, could speak like this. Surely he has studied the whole of grammar many times over, for though he has said a great deal he has not spoken one faulty word. In his face, his eyes, his forehead, his brows or any other limb I noticed no fault at all. His speech is not long-winded, not ambiguous, not halting and not strained; it rises from the chest, passes through the throat and keeps to a middle pitch. He speaks with refinement and in due order, wonderfully, without hesitation, in words that gladden the heart. Whose heart would not be won by such marvellous speech, formed at the three places of utterance — even an enemy's, with sword raised?" This praise is a small treatise on the Indian science of speech: the three Vedas, the discipline of grammar, faultless bearing, the four virtues of good speech, the three places — chest, throat and head — where sound is formed, and the middle pitch. What is striking is that Rāma praises neither Hanumān's strength nor his looks but only his speech, for speech is an envoy's chief instrument. There is subtlety in "though he said much, he made no slip": a man who talks much easily errs, yet here not one fault appeared. The verse on his face and eyes shows that his bearing too was tested, since a speaker's meaning shows in face and eyes, and there too he was flawless. The principle here is that speech reaches its highest end when it wins the listener's heart.

"Blameless one, if a king has no such envoy, how can his undertakings succeed? But the king whose agents have such a wealth of virtues achieves all his aims, set in motion by his envoy's words." Here Rāma turns his praise of Hanumān into praise of Sugrīva's good fortune: a fine envoy is the root of a king's success. And by this the rightness of friendship with Sugrīva is proved of itself, for a master whose envoy is such a one must himself be excellent. The "courses" of undertakings, in the plural, suggest the many roads to success.

So addressed, Saumitri, himself a master of words, spoke to the son of the Wind, Sugrīva's eloquent counsellor: "Learned one, we know the virtues of great-souled Sugrīva, and it is Sugrīva, lord of the leaping folk, whom we have been seeking. Just as you tell us here on Sugrīva's behalf, so, best of beings, we will do at your word." "We know" recalls what Kabandha, the son of Danu, had told them, and "at your word" honours the envoy — they will act not only on his master's word but on his own. Hearing that skilful answer, the son of the Wind was overjoyed; setting his mind on the winning of victory, he wished then to make friendship between them. His joy is that his errand has succeeded and Sugrīva's victory is now assured. Fixing his mind on victory shows his foresight: to him the friendship is not mere friendship but the means of Sugrīva's triumph. Addressing him as "best of beings", Lakṣmaṇa acknowledges the envoy's virtues. The poet ends the sarga at the joint: the wish for friendship is born here, and the meeting comes in the next sarga.