चन्द्रोदयवर्णनं रावणान्तःपुरे सीतान्वेषणं च

Then the wise Hanumān saw the moon, risen now to the middle of the sky, pouring out again and again its canopy of moonlight and roaming the heavens like a rutting bull roaming a cattle-pen. Advancing with its cool rays, it destroyed the sins and the fevers of the world, swelled the great ocean into its tides and made every creature shine. The beauty that dwells on earth in Mount Mandara, at dusk in the ocean, and in the waters in the lotus, that same beauty now shone in the lovely moon. As a swan shines in a silver cage, a lion in a cave of Mandara, or a hero mounted on a proud elephant, so the moon shone set in the sky; like a humped bull with sharp horns, like the great white mountain with its lofty peaks, like an elephant whose tusks are bound with gold, it shone with its horns full. The mire of cold water and frost was gone from it, the mire of darkness destroyed by the grip of the great planet, and as the seat of radiant beauty even its mark seemed spotless. As a lion shines when it reaches a ledge of rock, an elephant when it reaches a great battle, a king when he wins a kingdom, so the moon shone. The evening itself became like heaven: its fault of darkness was destroyed by the rising moon, the rākṣasas' fault of flesh-eating grew strong, and the lovers' faults of mind — their quarrels — were stilled. The poet opens this sarga in longer metres and makes the description of the moon a pleasure to the ear, ending verse after verse on the same word — "horn", "mire", "fault". The moonlight helps Hanumān in his search, so the moon seems to be his ally. At the end of the second sarga the moon had risen; now it has reached mid-heaven, so the night has advanced. The images — bull, lion, elephant, hero, king — are all emblems of strength and valour, so that the moon too is pictured as a hero, and they mirror Hanumān's own state as he moves fearless and alone through the enemy's city. Mandara was the churning-rod when the ocean of milk was churned, and so is linked with Lakṣmī, the goddess of beauty; she rose from the ocean and dwells in the lotus; so the beauty of all three places, the poet imagines, comes together in the moon.

At that hour of evening the sweet notes of the vīṇā had begun, pleasing to the ear; virtuous women were asleep beside their husbands; and the night-rovers, wondrous and savage in their ways, had set out to amuse themselves. The monkey saw the rākṣasas' households crowded with the drunk and the heedless, thronged with chariots, horses and fine seats, and full of martial splendour. The rākṣasas taunted one another hard, flung their brawny arms about, babbled drunkenly and abused each other in their cups. They beat their chests, threw their limbs over their beloveds, painted bright designs and drew their stout bows. Some women were anointing themselves with sandal, others were asleep again, fair-faced women were laughing, and others sighed in anger. With great elephants trumpeting, honoured courtiers and heroes sighing, the city looked like a lake full of hissing snakes. The poet uses the same verb, "flinging", again and again, to show the restlessness of the rākṣasas. All this reveals the unbridled pleasure of Rāvaṇa's kingdom, where dharma has little place. First he tells us that virtuous women sleep beside their husbands, and then describes the rākṣasas' contrary behaviour — a contrast deliberately drawn. Hanumān watches it all like an impartial witness; his eyes are searching everywhere for Sītā alone, so even the uproar does not hinder him. The brawling of drunkards, the heavy breath of warriors and the trumpeting of elephants together make a living picture of a night in Laṅkā.

In that city Hanumān saw yātudhānas of many kinds — outstanding in intellect, fair of speech, full of faith, leaders in the world, bearing handsome names. He was glad to see them handsome, rich in varied virtues, true to their own natures and radiant, though some he saw were ill-favoured. The poet here again plays on rhyming endings. Not all the rākṣasas are fools; some are wise and virtuous, and Hanumān sees this fairly. So we learn that Laṅkā's society is varied and not simply terrible.

Then he saw the rākṣasas' women: worthy of the best of men, pure-hearted and dignified, devoted to their lovers and to drink, gracious and bright as stars. He saw some blazing with beauty yet veiled in modesty, clasped by their lovers at midnight, held close as one bird holds another. Others sat happily in their lovers' laps on the terraces of the mansions, devoted to their husbands, intent on dharma and overcome by love. Some, unveiled, had the colour of streaks of gold; some the colour of refined gold; and others, parted from their lovers, were pale as the moon, with lovely limbs. The best of monkeys saw these fair women in their houses, happy and supremely lovely, glad at heart at having won lovers dear to their hearts. He saw faces bright as the moon, curving eyes with lovely lashes, and strings of ornaments shining like flashes of lightning. In these verses the same word is repeated at the end of each quarter, a play of sound that is a mark of this sarga, and the poet handles it so skilfully in the long metres that the description sounds like a song. Hanumān looks at all these women only to search for Sītā, not with desire, as he himself will say later. Everywhere women are seen with their lovers, which throws Sītā's separation into sharper relief; and in the women parted from their lovers the poet shows us those whose plight recalls hers.

But nowhere there did he see Sītā. She was born of the highest lineage, into a royal house that stands on the path of righteousness; slender, like a creeper in full flower, fair-born and noble in mind. She was set firmly on the eternal path of dharma, her eyes on Rāma alone, filled with love for him, lodged in her husband's glorious heart and ever above all other women. Tormented by the fever of separation, her throat choked with streaming tears — that throat that once wore the finest necklace — with her lovely lashes and her sweet voice, she was like a peahen dancing in the forest. She must now be dimmed, the poet suggests, like a crescent moon barely seen behind cloud, like a streak of gold smeared with dust, like the scar of a healing arrow-wound, like a streak of cloud torn by the wind. Not seeing Sītā, the wife of Rāma, lord of men and best of speakers, the monkey was struck with grief for a long while and suddenly lost heart. For the first time Sītā's form is pictured in Hanumān's mind: he has never seen her, but he knows her marks from Rāma's words. All the images carry one feeling — beauty is there, but veiled, soiled, wounded — and so the poet sets Sītā's sorrowful state in the reader's mind before she has even been found. His dismay will deepen in the sargas that follow; but this losing heart is only a passing dip in his spirits, not the end of his resolve.