सीतायाः रामागमनप्रार्थना हनुमत्प्रस्तावप्रत्याख्यानं च

Hearing Hanumān's words, Sītā, whose face was like the full moon, answered him with words of dharma and good sense. "What you have told me, monkey, that Rāma thinks of nothing else and is wholly given over to grief, is to me like nectar mixed with poison." Her beloved's devotion was nectar; his suffering was poison. Then she spoke of the power of fate: "Whether a man stands in vast prosperity or in the direst misfortune, Fate binds him as if with a rope and drags him along. Surely no living being can ward off destiny, best of monkeys. Look at Saumitri, at me and at Rāma, all bewildered by misfortune. How will Rāghava ever reach the far shore of this grief, like a man swimming on, worn out, in the ocean after his boat is wrecked? When will my husband kill the rākṣasas, strike down Rāvaṇa, lay Laṅkā waste and look upon me? He must be told, 'Make haste!', for my life lasts only until this year is complete. This is the tenth month, monkey; only two remain of the term the cruel Rāvaṇa set for me. His brother Vibhīṣaṇa pleaded with him earnestly to give me back, but he will not set his mind to it. Returning me does not please Rāvaṇa, for he has passed into the power of Death, and Death is seeking him out in battle." Hope and fear are mingled in her words: on one side the comfort of Rāma's love, on the other the shrinking of time, and the two-month limit fills all that follows with urgency. The mention of Vibhīṣaṇa foreshadows what is to come: even in Laṅkā there was someone who spoke for dharma. Her words were "joined with dharma and good sense": not a mere lament but a considered speech. First she accepted the twofold effect of Hanumān's news, Rāma's single-minded devotion gladdening her and his sorrow burning her, and hence the image of nectar mixed with poison. Then she placed the cause of her sorrow in fate, not in any fault of Rāma's: in prosperity or in misfortune a man is not his own master, but is dragged along by Fate as if by a rope. "Look at them, bewildered" set before Hanumān the suffering of all three, Lakṣmaṇa, herself and Rāma. The shipwrecked swimmer shows the depth of Rāma's grief: the shore far off, his strength ebbing. Her "when will he look upon me?" was not doubt but longing, and "tell him to make haste" was the heart of her message: speed above everything. Rāvaṇa's deadline had been mentioned in earlier sargas; here Sītā made the reckoning plain: ten months gone, two left. By saying that Vibhīṣaṇa's efforts had failed, she showed she thought Rāvaṇa's ruin certain: Death was hunting for him.

She explained how she knew all this: "Vibhīṣaṇa's eldest daughter, Kalā, told me this herself, monkey; her mother sent her to me. There is also a wise and learned rākṣasa chief named Avindhya, steadfast, virtuous and old, whom Rāvaṇa holds in high regard. He warned Rāvaṇa that ruin had come upon the rākṣasas from Rāma, but that wicked one will not listen even to his sound advice." Then she declared her faith: "I hope, best of monkeys, that my husband will soon win me back. My inner self is pure, and there are many virtues in him. Energy, manliness, strength of spirit, kindness, gratitude, valour and power, monkey, are all found in Rāghava. What enemy would not tremble before the man who, without his brother, killed fourteen thousand rākṣasas in Janasthāna? That bull among men cannot be shaken by misfortune. I know his might as Śacī, daughter of Puloman, knows Indra's. The hero Rāma, a sun whose rays are volleys of arrows, monkey, will dry up the water that is his enemies, the rākṣasas." As the sun dries up water, so Rāma would destroy the rākṣasa host. Here a glimpse is given of the inside of Laṅkā: even in Rāvaṇa's own family some spoke for dharma, but he would not heed them. Even in her sorrow, counting Rāma's virtues was what kept her steady. "I hope" speaks of her hope, and "my inner self is pure" bears witness to her own faithfulness. The mention of Kalā shows that Vibhīṣaṇa's household felt for Sītā: the mother herself had sent her daughter. Avindhya's qualities, wise, learned, steadfast, virtuous, old, establish the weight of his words, and that Rāvaṇa would not heed even such a man proves his folly; "ruin has come from Rāma" shows Avindhya's foresight. Sītā then counted seven of Rāma's virtues, the virtues not only of a hero but of a righteous king. Gratitude and kindness deserve special mention, for these were what would move Rāma to come for her. The slaughter of Khara, Dūṣaṇa and the rest in Janasthāna was the visible proof of his strength.

As she talked on like this about Rāma, worn with grief, her face bathed in tears, Hanumān the monkey said to her: "As soon as he hears my words, Rāghava will come swiftly, leading a great army thronged with monkeys and bears. Or else I will free you this very day from this sorrow and from the rākṣasas. Climb onto my back, blameless lady. With you on my back I will cross the ocean; I have the strength to carry off Laṅkā itself, Rāvaṇa and all. This very day, Maithilī, I will bring you to Rāghava on Mount Prasravaṇa, as fire carries the oblation offered to Indra. Today you will see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, resolute as Viṣṇu setting out to slay the daityas, mighty, fired with eagerness to see you, sitting in his hermitage like Indra on the summit of the king of mountains. Climb onto my back, lady; do not hesitate, lovely one. Seek union with Rāma as Rohiṇī does with the moon. As though proclaiming, 'I shall meet my moon, as Rohiṇī does,' mount my back and cross the great ocean of the sky. When I set out carrying you away, lady, none of the people of Laṅkā will be able to follow me. Just as I came here, so I will go, lifting you up through the sky; watch me, Vaidehī." Hearing these marvellous words from the best of monkeys, Maithilī, thrilled in every limb with joy and wonder, said to Hanumān: "Hanumān, how can you think of carrying me so far? I take it this is just your monkey nature, leader of monkey bands. How can you, with so small a body, want to take me from here into the presence of my husband, the lord of men?" Here Hanumān's eagerness and Sītā's judgement meet face to face. There is a touch of humour in "your monkey nature": it struck her as the rashness of an impulsive monkey. At that moment his body was small, so her doubt was natural. His offer showed devotion and urgency; her answer, composure and good sense. His offer held two choices: either Rāma would come with his army, or Hanumān would take her away that very day. The second sprang from his eagerness; remembering his leap across the ocean, he was sure he could go back the way he had come. "I could carry off Laṅkā, Rāvaṇa and all" was not mere boasting but a true knowledge of his strength. Fire carrying the oblation to Indra suggests purity: Sītā pure as the offering, Hanumān the fire that bears it. Picturing Rāma on Prasravaṇa like Indra on the summit of the king of mountains conveys both his waiting and his majesty. Rohiṇī and the moon, an image that recurs in this sarga, stand for the everlasting bond of Sītā and Rāma, and even the sky is imagined as an ocean to be crossed. By saying that no one could follow, he tried to remove the fear of pursuit. Sītā felt joy and wonder at once: joy at the hope of freedom, wonder at the daring of the offer. Her question "how can you want to take me?" is put twice, showing how firm her doubt was, and she named two reasons first, the long way and his small body. The drama of the scene is worth noticing too. In earlier sargas Hanumān had spoken humbly, as a messenger; here, like a rescuer, he wanted to finish the task himself, for three reasons: to end Sītā's sorrow at once, to take away Rāma's grief, and to show his own power. Sītā welcomed the kindness of the offer but questioned whether it could be done, and by speaking of "my husband, the lord of men" she reminded him that the goal was not merely the far shore of the sea but Rāma's presence. So question and answer prepared the way for the showing of his great form.

Hearing Sītā's words, the glorious Hanumān, son of the Wind, thought: "This is a fresh slight put upon me. This dark-eyed lady does not know my strength or my power. So let Vaidehī see the form I can take at will." With that thought, the best of monkeys, crusher of foes, resolved to show Sītā his true form. The wise bull among monkeys leapt down from the tree and began to grow, to give Sītā confidence. Like Meru or Mandara, blazing like a lit fire, he took his stand in front of her. Then that monkey, huge as a mountain, copper-faced, mighty and terrible, with teeth and nails like thunderbolts, said to Vaidehī: "I have the strength to carry off this Laṅkā with its hills and woods, its towers, ramparts and gateways, and its lord as well. So settle your mind; enough of doubting, lady. Free Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa from their sorrow, Vaidehī." Seeing him like a mountain, Janaka's daughter, her eyes wide as lotus petals, spoke to the Wind's own son: "Great monkey, I know your strength and power, your speed like the wind's and your splendour marvellous as fire's. How could any ordinary creature reach this land across the measureless ocean, leader of monkey bands? I know you are able to go and to carry me. Still, the matter must be weighed at once, as carefully as one weighs the success of one's own undertaking." Hanumān's unspoken thought, "a fresh slight", is delightful: he would not bear an insult, yet he answered it without anger, simply by showing his form. Sītā, for her part, acknowledged his power without giving up her judgement: his strength was known, but whether going was right was a separate question. Both Hanumān's humility and his strength are revealed here; the mere sight of him ended the argument, and the question of dharma followed. His growth is pictured as a mountain's: Meru and Mandara are the great mountains of the ancient tales, and the comparison shows how vast he became. Copper-faced, with teeth and nails like thunderbolts, he was terrifying, yet his words were gentle: "enough of doubting". "Its lord as well" means Laṅkā with Rāvaṇa in it. Seeing him like a mountain, Sītā called him the Wind's own son; his divine birth now stood out clearly in her mind. The wind's speed and the fire's splendour sum up his swiftness and his power. By saying no ordinary creature could have done it, she granted that a common monkey could not, yet with "the matter must be weighed" she insisted again on the need for judgement. His self-knowledge shows too: he had grown in size at the leap across the ocean and in his meeting with Surasā, and now he did so again to win Sītā's trust; "at will" shows that his changes of form were in his own power. He first came down from the tree and stood on the ground before growing, and so he stood before Sītā. His aim was twofold, to end Sītā's sorrow and to free Rāma from his. Earlier she had called him "leader of monkey bands"; now she called him "great monkey", and the change of address shows her change of mind.

Then Sītā set out the objections to going, one after another. "It is not fitting for me to go with you, best of monkeys. Your speed, swift as the wind, would make me faint. Clinging on high as you flew on and on above the ocean, I would fall from your back, and fallen into the sea, which teems with whales, crocodiles and fish, I would be helpless, a choice meal for the sea creatures. So I cannot go with you, destroyer of enemies; and with a wife to carry, you too would surely be in danger. Seeing me carried off, the rākṣasas, terrible in their might, would follow at the evil Rāvaṇa's command, and surrounded by those warriors with their spears and hammers, burdened with me, you would be in peril, hero. In the sky there would be many armed rākṣasas and you unarmed; how could you both fight them and protect me? As you fought with those cruel rākṣasas I would fall from your back in terror. Those rākṣasas are terrible, huge and strong; somehow they might defeat you. Or, as you turned to fight, I might fall, and the evil rākṣasas would seize me as I fell and carry me off. They might snatch me from your hands, or even cut me down, for victory and defeat in battle are always uncertain. Or I might perish from the rākṣasas' threats, and then your effort would come to nothing. Granted, you are able to kill all the rākṣasas; but if you killed them, Rāghava's fame would be diminished. Or the rākṣasas might take me and hide me in some secret place where neither the monkeys nor Rāghava could find me, and then all your effort for my sake would be in vain. But if Rāma comes with you, great good will come of it. On me depends the life of Rāghava of boundless might, of his brothers, and of your own royal house, mighty-armed one. Despairing of me, those two, worn with grief and anguish, would give up their lives, and all the bears and monkeys with them. And putting devotion to my husband first, monkey, I would not of my own will touch the body of any man but Rāma. That I came into contact with Rāvaṇa's body was by force; powerless, without my lord, helpless, what could I do?" Her reasoning builds step by step: first bodily fear, then the uncertainty of battle, then Rāma's fame, and last her faithfulness to her husband. The last reason seems the root, the others supporting it. The first was the speed: at a speed like the wind's she would faint and fall. The second was the sea, full of whales, crocodiles and fish, whose food she would become. The third was the uncertainty of a fight: the rākṣasas would pursue, Hanumān was unarmed, and he could not both protect her and fight. "With a wife to carry" matters here: a warrior carrying a woman bears a double burden and runs a double risk. The fourth was Rāma's fame: if Hanumān himself killed all the rākṣasas and brought her back, people would say Rāma had done nothing. The fifth was the danger of her being hidden: the rākṣasas might put her in some secret place where no search could find her again. The sixth was that all their lives rested on her: if harm came to Sītā, Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva's house, the monkeys and the bears would all give up their lives. The seventh and chief reason was faithfulness: to touch another man's body of her own will went against her dharma. Rāvaṇa's touch had been forced on her when she was powerless; now it would be by her own choice, so she refused. What marks these verses is that Sītā did not belittle Hanumān's strength; she only counted the dangers of the situation. "Victory and defeat in battle are uncertain" is a general maxim of statecraft as well. She honoured his devotion, yet did not cross the bounds of dharma. The order of her words is graceful too: she gave her own weakness as the reason, not his, "I would faint", "I would fall", and so did not wound his pride. Then she counted the possibilities of battle one by one, that the rākṣasas might win, snatch her, kill her or hide her, each of which would make his effort vain. At last she pointed to the positive way: "if Rāma comes with you, great good will come of it". In that sentence lies the answer to all her refusal: not her going, but his bringing Rāma. "On me depends their life" shows how much her safety mattered: many lives were bound up with hers. She gave the reason of faithfulness last, which adds to its dignity, and the three words "powerless, without my lord, helpless" show that she could do nothing when Rāvaṇa carried her off, and establish her innocence.

"If Rāma were to kill the Ten-necked One here with his rākṣasas and take me away from here, that would be worthy of him. I have heard of and seen the feats in battle of that great-souled crusher of foes; neither gods nor gandharvas, serpents nor rākṣasas are Rāma's equal in combat. Who could withstand Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa in battle, with his wondrous bow, mighty, valiant as Indra, like a blazing fire fanned by the wind? Who, chief of monkeys, could face Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa in battle, crusher of armies, standing firm like a rutting elephant of the quarters, his arrows flaming like the sun at the end of an age? So, best of monkeys, bring my beloved here quickly, with Lakṣmaṇa and the leaders of the troops. Gladden me, heroic monkey, for I have long been worn with grief for Rāma." The last verses, in a longer metre, bring the sarga to a solemn close. Her plea was not only for freedom but for Rāma's glory: "that would be worthy of him" makes plain that rescuing a wife is the husband's own task. She first declared Rāma without equal, then with the images of fire, elephant and sun described how unassailable he was, and her two questions, "who could withstand him, who could face him", make Rāvaṇa's defeat certain. With "the leaders of the troops" in the last verse she asked for Sugrīva's army to come too. So the sarga ends in hope, not despair.