हनूमतो बलोद्रेकः महेन्द्राधिरोहणं च

When the monkeys saw Hanumān, best of monkeys, stretching himself to cross a hundred yojanas and suddenly swelling with power, they threw off their grief in an instant and, filled with delight, roared aloud and praised the mighty Hanumān. Joyful and amazed, they gazed at him from every side, as creatures once gazed at Nārāyaṇa growing from his dwarf form, eager to take his three strides. The army's turn from despair to joy is the sarga's first picture, and the image of the dwarf hints at the great deed to come. Those who were sunk in grief in the last sarga are now roaring and praising, a change made possible by the rising of one hero, and "in an instant" shows how suddenly their grief fell away.

Praised in this way, mighty Hanumān grew larger and larger; lashing his tail in his joy, he came into his strength — that is, he remembered his own power. Lashing the tail is a monkey's natural sign of zeal. The phrase can mean both that he gained strength and that he recalled it, and both fit, since the strength had always been in him and only been forgotten. Praised by the elder monkeys and filled with energy, he took on a form beyond compare. As a lion stretches in a wide, open mountain cave, so the true-born son of the Wind now stretched himself; a lion is most fearsome not when it roars but when it stretches. The sequence is clear: praise reminds him of his strength, and the remembering makes him grow.

As he stretched, the wise monkey's face shone like a glowing brazier, bright as smokeless fire. Then, every hair on his body bristling — the outward sign of his zeal — he rose from among the monkeys, saluted the elders, and spoke. His greeting to the elders before speaking shows his good character. "The Wind, friend of Fire, blows shattering the peaks of mountains; powerful, immeasurable, he ranges the sky. I am the true-born son of that swift-moving, swift-coursing great one, and in leaping I am his equal." The three descriptions of the Wind — friend of Fire, immeasurable, ranging the sky — link him to the three worlds and imply the son is the same. This is not self-praise but a statement of his power grounded in his father's greatness, and there is modesty in it too: he says he is his father's equal, not greater.

"I could circle vast Mount Meru, which seems to scrape the sky, a thousand times without stopping. With the ocean churned up by the force of my arms I could flood the world with its mountains, rivers and lakes. The rush of my thighs and legs will make Varuṇa's ocean rise, and its great sea-monsters will be flung up with it. I could circle even Garuḍa, the eater of serpents, attended by birds as he flies across the sky, a thousand times." Meru, the ocean and Garuḍa are the world's three symbols of greatness, and by surpassing them the poet shows Hanumān's power to be beyond measure. "Without stopping" means circling a thousand times with no rest in between. Stirring up the sea-monsters means disturbing the ocean to its very floor, and all from the mere rush of his legs. By claiming he could circle even Garuḍa a thousand times, Hanumān himself suggests he is no less than the king of birds.

"I can reach the blazing sun with his garland of rays after he has set out from the mountain of sunrise and before he sets, and then, bulls among the monkeys, I can come back with a mighty, terrible rush without touching the ground." What he tried as a child — going to the sun — he now resolves on again, and so Jāmbavān's story bears fruit; "without touching the ground" makes clear there will be no rest on the way, which is just what crossing the ocean requires. "I can overtake everything that travels through the sky. I will dry up the oceans and split the earth. Leaping monkey that I am, I will grind the mountains to dust as I leap, and as I leap the great ocean I will sweep it along by the rush of my thighs." It sounds like exaggeration, but in truth it is regained self-confidence: the one who sat silent before now thinks even the three worlds small. He speaks of drying up not one ocean but all of them, and these words plant trust in his listeners' hearts.

"Today the flowers of the creepers and of every tree will follow me as I fly through the air, and my path across the sky will be bright with flowers like the path of the star Svāti" — an image of the beauty of flowers raining through the sky. "As I travel the dreadful sky, as I rise and as I come down, all creatures and all the monkeys will see me. You will see me, monkeys, as huge as great Meru, filling the heavens as I go, as if swallowing the sky" — Meru for the size of his form, the swallowed sky for the speed of his going; and with "you will see" he makes the monkeys his witnesses. "I will scatter the clouds and shake the mountains, and, with my mind fixed on it, I will dry up the ocean as I leap." Scattering clouds is a natural act for the Wind's son; and "with my mind fixed" shows that the deed is done not by strength alone but by concentration.

"Only Garuḍa, or I, or the Wind has the power to leap the ocean. Apart from the king of birds and the mighty Wind, I see no creature that could follow me once I have sprung. In the blink of an eye I will shoot across the unsupported sky, like lightning leaping from a cloud." The lightning shows the suddenness of his speed, and "unsupported" shows that though the sky offers nothing to rest on, his going will be unchecked. "As I leap the ocean my form will be like Viṣṇu's when he took his three strides," an image of the greatness of his form. "So I see it in my mind, and my heart moves the same way: I will find Vaidehī. Rejoice, monkeys!" At the end, his roaring turns into a vow. "I will find Vaidehī" is the essence of all his roaring and the real comfort for the monkeys, and with "rejoice" he drives away their grief.

"In speed I am the Wind's equal, in swiftness Garuḍa's; I think I could go ten thousand yojanas" — so a mere hundred is small for him. "I could leap up and snatch the nectar from the hand of Indra with his thunderbolt, or of self-born Brahmā, and bring it here. I could even pluck up Laṅkā and carry it off — that is my resolve." His talk of lifting Laṅkā seems a foreshadowing of what will happen in the Sundara Kāṇḍa. These claims about seizing the nectar and uprooting Laṅkā are not mere display of strength but a declaration of firm certainty that Sugrīva's command will be fulfilled. All of them watched that best of monkeys roaring like this, his splendour boundless, and stood spellbound.

The monkeys gazed at him, delighted and amazed. Hearing his words, which wiped away the grief of his kinsmen, Jāmbavān, lord of the monkeys, overjoyed, said: "Hero, son of Kesarī, swift son of the Wind, dear child, you have destroyed the great grief of your kinsmen." With this he declared that the despair of the last sarga was over. "The chief monkeys gathered here wish you well, and with their minds fixed on it they will perform the auspicious rites for the success of the task" — rites the scriptures require before setting out. "By the grace of the sages, with the consent of the monkey elders and the blessing of your teachers, cross the great ocean." He asks for the favour of these three so that the task will have heaven on its side. "Until you come back, we will stand on one foot" — a vow of austerity that shows everyone's anxiety, and names how long they would wait. Jāmbavān's speech is praise, blessing and pledge all at once.

"The lives of all these forest-dwellers depend on you," Jāmbavān said, and fell silent. Then that tiger among monkeys said to the forest-dwellers: "No one in the world can bear the force of my leap. Only these peaks of Mount Mahendra, dense with rock, are firm and vast enough. It is on these great peaks of Mahendra, covered with every kind of tree and bright with streams of ore, that I will plant my thrust and go. Only they have the strength to bear my force; they will hold me as I leap a hundred yojanas from here." By saying that only Mahendra's peaks could bear his thrust, Hanumān shows how great his weight is: softer ground could not hold him, and only a mountain so thick with rock could withstand the stamp of his feet. Then that monkey, the Wind's son, like the Wind himself, crusher of enemies, climbed Mahendra, best of mountains; the two epithets hint, at the very moment of climbing, at the valour to come. The climb itself is the beginning of the deed.

The mountain was covered with flowers of every kind; its turf was grazed by deer, it was thick with flowering creepers, and its trees were always in flower and fruit. Lions and tigers lived there and rutting elephants roamed it; it rang with flocks of intoxicated birds and was full of rushing streams. So the poet describes the mountain's richness. That mighty monkey, best of his kind, equal in valour to great Indra — Mahendra, a name the mountain shares, so that he matches both — roamed over Mahendra with its lofty peaks. Pressed by the feet of that great one, the huge mountain cried out like a great rutting elephant struck by a lion. Its beauty is described and then its cry of pain, and by this contrast the poet shows how immense Hanumān's weight was; the simile fits, for the mountain too was great and mighty, and yet overpowered by something mightier.

The great mountain poured out torrents of water as its boulders scattered; its deer and elephants were terrified, and its great trees shook. Scattered rocks, gushing streams, frightened beasts and trembling trees are four signs of the upheaval, and the sudden bursting of the streams is direct proof of the mountain's inner turmoil. Its great tablelands were deserted by pairs of gandharvas, made rough by drinking, by birds flying up and by hosts of vidyādharas; its great serpents hid themselves away, and boulders came crashing down from its crags. Even heavenly beings abandoned its peaks, which shows how violent the quaking was. Gandharvas, vidyādharas and birds fled the heights while the serpents burrowed into their holes — two kinds of fear, flight and hiding.

With the serpents half out of their holes and hissing, their hoods like flags, the mountain looked at that moment as if it were hung with banners. Abandoned by sages confused with terror, that mass of rock sank down like a lone traveller left behind by his caravan in a vast wilderness, an image of the mountain's loneliness and misery. Then that swift monkey, his whole being gathered for the leap, chief of monkey heroes, slayer of enemy champions, great-souled and resolute, composed his mind and went to Laṅkā in thought. "Went to Laṅkā in thought" means that his mind went ahead of his body. This closing verse, in a longer metre, brings the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa to its end, and the door of the Sundara Kāṇḍa opens.