लङ्कादर्शनं हनुमतश्चिन्ता सूक्ष्मरूपेण पुरप्रवेशश्च

Having crossed the unassailable ocean, the mighty Hanumān stood calmly on the slope of Mount Trikūṭa and looked out at Laṅkā. The trees showered their flowers on him, and the valiant monkey, covered in blossom, looked as though he were made of flowers. Though he had crossed a hundred leagues, that glorious monkey of supreme valour did not so much as pant, nor did he feel any weariness. "I could stride across many hundreds of leagues," he thought, "let alone the far shore of the ocean, a mere hundred away." It was not pride but confidence. The best of the strong and foremost of leapers, having crossed the great ocean, went swiftly on towards Laṅkā, through dark-green meadows, fragrant woods rich with honey and places thick with trees, passing over wooded hills and rows of flowering forest. Standing on that mountain, the son of the Wind saw the woods and groves, and Laṅkā set on the mountain's summit. Here the poet shows at once his strength of body and his steadiness of mind: after so long a flight he feels no fatigue and is eager to do still more. The rain of flowers is like nature's welcome, as the trees had showered him with flowers when he leapt from Mahendra. That he stood "at ease" shows that his mind was calm and untroubled, and that calm is the ground of all the careful thought that follows. At the end of the last sarga he had come down on a peak of Mount Lamba; now from that spot he gazes at Laṅkā, so that the thread of the story runs unbroken between the two. Having reached the shore he does not rush into the city but first studies it from a distance — a caution that reveals his intelligence. He is called both best of the strong and best of leapers: first in strength and first in speed.

There the elephant among monkeys saw sarala and karṇikāra trees, date palms in full flower, priyālas, mucalindas, kuṭajas and ketakas, fragrant priyaṅgus, nīpas and saptacchadas, asanas, kovidāras and karavīras in bloom; trees bowed down with their loads of blossom and others still in bud, full of birds, their crowns tossing in the wind. He saw pools crowded with swans and kāraṇḍava ducks and covered with lotuses and lilies, many lovely pleasure-grounds, lakes of every kind, and beautiful gardens thick with trees that bore fruit and flower in every season. The long list of trees shows Laṅkā's wealth and natural beauty, and trees that flower and fruit in all seasons at once are something beyond the ordinary world. Hanumān looks closely at these gardens, and the looking matters, for it will be in the Aśoka grove that he finds Sītā. The poet describes the outskirts of Laṅkā first and only then the city, so that the reader, like Hanumān, approaches it step by step. The scent of the flowers, the song of the birds and the coolness of the waters make a resting-place after his long journey, yet he does not stop even for a moment. That even the outer lands of the enemy's kingdom are so lovely is the first proof of Rāvaṇa's splendour.

The glorious Hanumān drew near to Laṅkā, which Rāvaṇa guarded. It was ringed with moats full of lotuses and lilies, and ever since he had carried off Sītā, Rāvaṇa had kept it under especially close guard, with rākṣasas bearing fierce bows patrolling it on every side. The great and lovely city was enclosed by a golden rampart; its houses were like mountains, like the clouds of autumn; it was surrounded by high white streets, crowded with hundreds of towers and bright with flags and banners, and its heavenly gateways of gold were painted with patterns of creepers. Hanumān looked at Laṅkā as a god might look at the city of the gods. Set on the mountain's summit with its fine white mansions, the city built by Viśvakarman and guarded by the lord of the rākṣasas seemed to him to be moving, floating, through the sky. She was like a woman: her ramparts and walls were her hips, her broad waters and woods her garments, her śataghnīs and spears the ends of her hair, her towers her earrings — Laṅkā, which Viśvakarman had made as though by thought alone. Reaching the northern gate, the monkey stopped to think. The gate was like a peak of Kailāsa, seeming to scratch the sky and to hold up the heavens with its lofty mansions. The city was full of fearsome rākṣasas as Bhogavatī is full of serpents; it was beyond imagining, well built and clear to view, and it had once been the home of Kubera. Guarded by many brave rākṣasas with fangs, fearsome, spears and pattiśas in their hands, it was like a cave guarded by venomous snakes. Two images stand out. Laṅkā is imagined as a woman, and in the next sarga she will actually appear in a woman's form, so the image sows the seed of that scene; and the cave full of venomous snakes shows how dangerous it would be to enter. That Rāvaṇa had tightened his guard since carrying off Sītā shows his own fear: he too knows that someone will come to free her. That the city was once Kubera's recalls its history, for Rāvaṇa took it from his brother Kubera; Laṅkā is stolen property, as Sītā is a stolen wife. The description moves in three layers — first the defences, the moats, rampart and archers; then the beauty, the houses, streets and gateways; then fear again, the snakes and fanged guards. Beauty wrapped in fear is Laṅkā's very nature. "As a god sees the city of the gods" hints that Hanumān too is divine, a son of the Wind. Seen from afar, on its mountain-top, the city seems to float among the clouds. At the northern gate he stops and weighs how to enter rather than going in headlong, and the praise of Viśvakarman, who seemed to build by a mere wish, shows the city's marvellous craftsmanship.

Surveying the great defences of the city, the ocean around it and Rāvaṇa, his terrible enemy, the monkey reflected: "Even if the monkeys come here they will be of no use; Laṅkā cannot be taken in battle even by the gods. Even if mighty-armed Rāghava reaches this hard fortress that Rāvaṇa guards, what will he be able to do? With these rākṣasas there is no room for conciliation, none for gifts, none for sowing dissension, none even for war. Of all our swift monkeys only four could get here at all: Vālin's son Aṅgada, Nīla, myself, and our wise king Sugrīva. Well then — let me first find out whether Vaidehī is alive or not. When I have seen the daughter of Janaka, I will think about all this." Here his statesmanship shows: he weighs the four means of policy — conciliation, gifts, dissension and force — and sees no scope for any of them. Yet he does not despair. He decides that the main task comes first and the rest after: until Sītā's condition is known, planning a war is pointless — a practical wisdom. When he counts the four who could come, he puts his own name among the others, not first, a mark of his modesty. He is not doubting Rāma's power; he is simply making plain how hard Laṅkā is to reach. His worry is born of understanding how grave the task is, not of weakness.

Then, standing on the mountain peak, the elephant among monkeys thought for a while about how Rāma's cause might prosper. "In this form I cannot enter the city of the rākṣasas," he reflected, "guarded as it is by cruel and powerful rākṣasas. As I search for Jānakī I must slip past them all, mighty as they are in energy, valour and strength. The time has come for me to enter the city of Laṅkā by night, in a form half seen and half unseen, to carry out this great task." His thought is for Rāma's good, not for his own fame. To slip past the enemy is not deceit but a part of the art of war, a way of escaping the enemy's eye; and a form "half seen and half unseen" is one the eye cannot catch, whose presence is known only from its work. So his decision to change his form is a considered one, not a sudden impulse.

Seeing such a city, which not even gods and asuras could assail, Hanumān sighed again and again and reflected: "How can I see Maithilī, Janaka's daughter, without being seen by that evil-minded Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas? How can I keep from ruining the cause of Rāma, whose greatness the world knows? How can I, alone, see Janaka's daughter alone and in private? Even things already achieved come to nothing when they fall to a flustered envoy who mistakes the place and the time, as darkness perishes at sunrise. Even a king's settled judgment of what should and should not be done loses its lustre through an unfit envoy; envoys who think themselves wise wreck every undertaking. How can I keep the task from being ruined? How can I keep from losing my head? How can I keep my leap across the ocean from being in vain? If the rākṣasas see me, this whole undertaking of Rāma's, who seeks Rāvaṇa's ruin, will come to nothing. No one can stay anywhere here unknown to the rākṣasas, not even in a rākṣasa's shape, let alone any other. I do not think even the wind could move about here unnoticed; nothing escapes these rākṣasas of terrible deeds. If I stay here hidden in my own form, I shall be killed and my master's cause will fail. So, in my own form but made small, I will slip into Laṅkā by night to accomplish Rāghava's purpose. I will enter Rāvaṇa's city by night, hard as it is to reach, go into every house and find the daughter of Janaka." This passage is like a treatise on the duty of an envoy: he must know the right place and time, keep his nerve, keep his secret and be wholly devoted to his master's cause. He names three faults of an envoy — mistaking place and time, losing his nerve, and thinking himself wise — and he avoids all three. He condemns the envoy puffed up with false learning, and himself sets pride aside, weighing things again and again. The image of darkness vanishing at sunrise is apt: an unfit envoy destroys everything in a moment. His three questions — how not to ruin the task, how not to lose his nerve, how not to waste the leap — are the three chief strands of his worry, and his returning to the same question shows how seriously he takes it. Rāma, he says, seeks Rāvaṇa's destruction; if Hanumān were discovered, the enemy would be put on guard and might carry Sītā elsewhere or kill her. Secrecy is therefore the root of success. The repeated word "alone" — one envoy, one Sītā, a private meeting — underlines the need for secrecy. "Not even the wind could move about here unknown" is both an exaggeration and a paradox, since it is the Wind's own son who wishes to move unknown. At the end he makes his decision: to enter by night, in a small form. This carefully reasoned course is a famous example of Hanumān's wisdom.

Having made up his mind, the heroic monkey Hanumān, eager to see Vaidehī, waited for the sun to set. When the sun had gone down and night had come, the son of the Wind shrank his body to the size of a cat, and even so he was a wonder to see. At dusk the valiant Hanumān sprang up swiftly and entered the lovely city with its well-laid-out highways. Small as he had made himself, he was still wonderful — even the smallness of a great being is a marvel — and his splendour was not lessened, for he had shrunk only his body, not his might. Waiting for sunset shows his patience: eager as he was, he did not hurry, for by day everyone would see him, and so he kept the resolve he had already made, to enter the city by night.

The city was spread with rows of mansions, their pillars like gold and their lattices of refined gold, like a city of the gandharvas. He saw that great city with its seven- and eight-storeyed mansions, whose floors were inlaid with crystal and adorned with gold, set with beryl and gems and hung with nets of pearls; with such floors the mansions of the rākṣasas shone. The bright, many-coloured golden gateways of the rākṣasas lit up Laṅkā, adorned on every side. Seeing Laṅkā, beyond imagining and wondrous in form, the great monkey felt both dismay and gladness, for he was eager to see Vaidehī. He entered that glorious city, garlanded with rows of white mansions, with its costly gateways and lattices of gold, protected by the arms of Rāvaṇa and closely guarded by night-rovers of terrible strength. His feelings are mixed: dismay at how hard the city is to search, and joy at the hope of seeing Sītā. His dismay does not come from fear but from the weight of his task — how hard it will be to find one woman in so vast a city. Calling it a city of the gandharvas hints also at its illusory nature, for a gandharva city is a mirage, seen but not real. What was seen from afar is now seen from within, so the description grows more detailed: pillars, lattices, floors and gateways. "Protected by the arms of Rāvaṇa" speaks of Rāvaṇa's pride in his own strength.

Then the moon too rose, as though to help him, shining among the hosts of stars with its many thousands of rays and spreading its canopy of moonlight over the worlds. The foremost of monkeys saw the moon, bright as a conch, white as milk and lotus-stalks, climbing and shining like a swan swimming on a lake. It is a lovely fancy of the poet that the moon is Hanumān's helper: in the darkness, in his small form, he has the moon to light his way. The image of the swan conveys both the moon's whiteness and its gliding motion, and conch, milk and lotus-stalk, three white things, blend in its colour.