काकवृत्तान्तकथनं चूडामणिप्रदानं च

Pleased with what Sītā had said, Hanumān, tiger among monkeys and a master of words, answered her: "What you have said, lovely lady, is altogether fitting, worthy of a woman's nature and of the modesty of virtuous wives." He accepted her two reasons separately. First: "Being a woman, you could not cross the ocean, a hundred yojanas wide, riding on my back"; speed and fear come naturally to a woman in such a case. Second: "And your other reason, gentle Jānakī, that you must not touch anyone but Rāma, is worthy of the wife of that great-souled man. Who but you, lady, could say such a thing?" With these words Hanumān praised her faithfulness, and he was not hurt that his offer had been refused. "Kākutstha will hear everything, in full, that you have done and said before me, lady." He explained the reasons for his offer too: "I said it for many reasons: out of the wish to please Rāma, because my heart was melting with affection, because Laṅkā is so hard to enter and the great ocean so hard to cross, and because I trust my own strength. I wanted to bring you together with the delight of the Raghus this very day. I spoke out of affection for my master and out of devotion, and for no other reason." At last he asked: "If you are not willing to come with me, blameless lady, give me a token by which Rāghava may know you." His humility deserves notice: he did not treat his eagerness as a fault but simply made his motives clear. "Affection for my master" carries the sense that Rāma was to be revered like a teacher. With the request for a token, the main business of this sarga begins, for words alone would not be enough to convince Rāma. The tone here is especially gentle. In the previous sarga Sītā had refused his offer and at first even doubted his strength, yet Hanumān was not offended and did not argue in his own defence; he accepted each of her reasons as fitting and only made his own intention clear. By promising that Rāma would hear everything, he assured her that her courage and faithfulness would reach Rāma's ears. So the duty of an envoy is shown as well: all that he has seen and heard must be reported to his master exactly as it was. Asking for a token was also an envoy's duty, so that Rāma, Sugrīva and the monkeys would trust his word completely.

Addressed like this, Sītā, who was like a daughter of the gods, spoke slowly, her words choked with tears: "Tell my beloved this, the best of all tokens." She recalled something that happened at Citrakūṭa, which only Rāma and she knew. "At the foot of Mount Citrakūṭa, on its north-eastern side, in a place rich in roots, fruit and water, frequented by siddhas and not far from the Mandākinī, I was living in a hermitage of ascetics. You had been sporting in the water in the groves there, fragrant with many flowers, and you came back wet and sat in my lap." Here Sītā addressed Rāma directly as "you", so that Hanumān could repeat her words to Rāma exactly. "Then a crow greedy for meat began pecking at me, and I picked up a clod and tried to drive it off. The crow kept tearing at me and hiding right there; that eater of offerings, hungry for food, would not leave the meat alone. Angry with the bird, I pulled at my girdle, and my garment slipped, and you saw me. You laughed at me, and I was angry and ashamed. Torn by that greedy crow, I came to you, and tired out I sat in your lap as you sat there, and you, delighted, soothed me while I was still half angry." This story paints the intimate moments of a marriage, Rāma's laughter, Sītā's shyness, her anger, and then his comforting; such moments were known only to the two of them, and so as a token they were entirely to be trusted. The crow is called an "eater of offerings", one that feeds on the food set out for spirits, and greedy for meat. The peace of the forest, the nearness of the Mandākinī and the scent of flowers are described here, which makes the violence to come all the sharper. Sītā gave two tokens: first this secret story in words, and at the end of the sarga the crest-jewel as an object. The spoken token came first because only the two of them knew it, and no one else could invent it. The exact description of the place, the north-eastern side, the Mandākinī, the siddhas, the ascetics' hermitage, makes the story more credible. The picture of Rāma coming back wet from the water recalls the happy days of the exile, when the burden of the kingdom was far away and sorrow was slight. And the picture of her tugging at her girdle shows her caught between anger and shyness: intent on driving off the crow, she did not notice her garment slipping, but Rāma saw it and laughed. So private an incident could be known to no one else, and that is why it was the best of tokens.

"With my face full of tears, slowly wiping my eyes, angered by the crow, I was noticed by you, my lord. Tired out, I slept a long while in Rāghava's lap, and then in turn Bharata's elder brother slept in mine. Then that crow came back, and as I woke from sleep and rose from Rāghava's lap, it suddenly swooped down and tore me between the breasts. Again and again it flew up and tore at me savagely, until Rāma woke, spattered with drops of my blood. Seeing me wounded on the breasts, the mighty-armed one, hissing like an angry snake, said: 'You whose thighs are like an elephant's trunk, who has wounded you between the breasts? Who is playing with an angry five-headed serpent?' Looking about, he saw the crow facing me, its sharp claws red with blood. That crow, best of birds, was said to be the son of Indra; swift as the wind, it had quickly come down to the earth. Then the mighty-armed Rāma, best of the wise, his eyes rolling with rage, formed a cruel resolve against the crow. He took a blade of darbha grass from his mat and charged it with the weapon of Brahmā, and it blazed like the fire at the end of time, turned towards the bird. He hurled that blazing blade of grass at the crow, and it pursued the crow through the sky. Pursued, the crow flew this way and that, and roamed the whole world looking for protection. Abandoned by his father Indra and by all the great seers, he circled the three worlds and at last came for refuge to Rāma himself. Kākutstha, who gives refuge, spared the crow out of compassion when it fell to the ground before him seeking refuge, though it deserved to die. To the worn-out, pale bird as it fell he said: 'The Brahmā weapon cannot be made fruitless; tell me what is to be done.' Then the weapon destroyed the crow's right eye; giving up its right eye, the crow saved its life. It bowed to Rāma and to King Daśaratha, and dismissed by that hero, it went back to its own home." In this story two of Rāma's qualities shine out together: fierce anger against the wrongdoer and boundless compassion for one who seeks refuge. The Brahmā weapon's unfailing power was kept and so was the refugee's life; the loss of one eye reconciled the two. The crow bowed to both Rāma and Daśaratha. A blade of grass, a mere straw, became a mighty weapon through the power of the mantra, which shows the force of Rāma's mastery of weapons. Not even Indra could protect his son, nor could the seers, which proves that Rāma's weapon could not be turned aside. Protecting those who take refuge appears here as Rāma's very vow. This second part of the story differs from the first: before, the crow's doings seemed almost play, and Rāma laughed; now it tore her breast, blood flowed, and Rāma woke. The drops of blood suggest that they fell on Rāma too and woke him. His question, "who is playing with a five-headed serpent?", means that whoever wronged Sītā was inviting death, like a man playing with a five-hooded snake, and "hissing like a snake" shows how terrible his anger was. That the crow was Indra's son and swift as the wind makes its offence graver: though the son of a god, it had sinned. The weapon followed it through the three worlds, wherever it went, and even its father Indra did not protect it. In the end it took refuge with Rāma himself, the very one it feared. Rāma is called "the giver of refuge": he never abandons one who seeks his shelter, even one who deserves death. Since the weapon could not be fruitless, some result had to be given, and so the crow itself gave up an eye. This story becomes the ground of Sītā's reproach that follows. "Gone down to the earth" means the crow had come from heaven to earth. The darbha mat was their bed in the forest, and from it Rāma took the blade of grass to charge with the weapon; so the humblest thing of a forest-dweller became a great weapon in his hand. At the end of the story Sītā drew no conclusion herself; that conclusion appears in her reproach. Rāma's anger and his compassion may seem opposed, but both are parts of dharma: punishing the wicked and protecting those who seek refuge.

Having finished the story, Sītā reproached Rāma as though speaking to him face to face: "Lord of the earth, for my sake you loosed the Brahmā weapon even at a mere crow; why then do you forgive the one who carried me off from you? Show great zeal and compassion for me, bull among men. Though I have a lord in you, my lord, I seem like one without a protector. Kindness is the highest dharma: I learned that from you. I know you to be of great valour, great energy and great strength, boundless, unshakeable, deep as the ocean, lord of the sea-girt earth, equal to Indra. Best of those who know weapons, strong and courageous as you are, Rāghava, why do you not use your weapons against the rākṣasas? Neither nāgas nor gandharvas, neither gods nor the hosts of Maruts can withstand Rāma's onset in battle. If that valiant man has any concern for me, why does he not destroy the rākṣasas with his sharp arrows? Or why does Lakṣmaṇa, scorcher of foes, that mighty hero, not take his brother's command and rescue me? If those two tigers among men, whose splendour equals the Wind's and Indra's, cannot be overcome even by the gods, why do they neglect me? Surely there is some great wrong I have done, beyond doubt, that those two scorchers of foes, able as they are, do not look after me." There is no anger in this reproach, only the pain born of love. With the story of the crow Sītā recalled Rāma's power and his anger, and then, unable to bear his delay, she asked why. In the end she laid the blame on herself, "some wrong I have done", the height of her humility. The list of Rāma's virtues is part of the reproach, not mere praise: it is the ground of the question why one so great should delay. She named Lakṣmaṇa too, for he also, at Rāma's command, could rescue her. The argument of her reproach is simple and strong: he who used the Brahmā weapon for the small offence of a crow, why did he not act against Rāvaṇa's great one? "A mere crow" sets the smallness of that offender against the enormity of Rāvaṇa's. "Having a lord, yet like one without a protector" is a paradox that sharpens her grief: her husband was alive and able, and yet she was as good as unprotected. With "kindness is the highest dharma" she reminded Rāma of his own teaching. Naming nāgas, gandharvas, gods and Maruts establishes that Rāma cannot be conquered, and it was the delay of so mighty a man that caused her pain. "If he has any concern for me" is love's anxiety, not distrust.

Hearing Vaidehī's pitiful words spoken through her tears, the mighty Hanumān, leader of monkey bands, said: "Lady, I swear to you by the truth: grieving for you, Rāma has turned away from everything else, and with Rāma stricken by sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa is tormented too. Somehow you have been found; this is no time for grieving. In this very hour, lovely one, you will see the end of your sorrows. Those two mighty princes, tigers among men, fired with eagerness to see you, will burn the worlds to ashes. Rāghava will kill Rāvaṇa, cruel in war, with all his kin, and take you, large-eyed lady, to his own city. Tell me what I should say to Rāghava and to mighty Lakṣmaṇa, to the splendid Sugrīva, or to the assembled monkeys." Hanumān's answer settled Sītā's reproach: Rāma's delay came not from neglect but from not knowing, and now that she had been found there would be no more delay. His oath "by the truth" showed how firm his words were. "Turned away from everything else" means that in his grief for her Rāma turned from all else and thought only of her. "Somehow you have been found" briefly hints at how hard his search had been. At the end he asked her for her message, opening the way to the part that follows. "In this very hour you will see the end of your sorrows" is an overstatement meant only to raise her hope, and "they will burn the worlds to ashes" shows how far the brothers' anger would reach.

When Hanumān had spoken, Sītā spoke again: "Ask after the welfare, for my sake, of him whom high-minded Kausalyā bore to be lord of the world, and bow your head to him in greeting." Then she described Lakṣmaṇa's virtues at length, so that Hanumān could give him a message too. "He gave up garlands and every kind of jewel, beloved and lovely women, and a lordship hard to win anywhere on the wide earth; he honoured his father and mother and won their blessing, and followed Rāma into exile. Through him Sumitrā is blessed in her son. That righteous man gave up the greatest comfort and follows his brother Kākutstha loyally, guarding him in the forest, lion-shouldered, mighty-armed, high-minded and handsome. He treats Rāma like a father and me like a mother, and when I was carried off, that hero Lakṣmaṇa did not know of it. He serves his elders; he is graced with fortune, able, and not given to much talk; a prince, best of the beloved, like my father-in-law. Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma's brother, is always dearer to him than I am, and he carries with valour whatever burden he is yoked to. With him beside him, Rāghava did not miss his departed noble father. Ask him how he is, on my behalf and in my words. Gentle, pure and able, dear to Rāma, is Lakṣmaṇa; speak to him, best of monkeys, so that he may put an end to my sorrow." And she added: "In carrying this through, leader of the monkey bands, it is you who count; through your efforts Rāghava will bend his energy to winning me." Here there seems to be something like amends for the harsh words Sītā had spoken to Lakṣmaṇa in the forest when Mārīca lured Rāma away; now she remembered him with a mother's affection and even likened him to her father-in-law. "Lakṣmaṇa did not know" carries her regret: he had been far away when she was carried off, and the fault was not his. She listed his virtues at length because she thought him Rāma's dearest helper, and admitting that he was dearer to Rāma than herself shows how free she was of pride. The order of her message is meaningful too: first greetings and good wishes to Rāma, then the long description of Lakṣmaṇa, and last, the responsibility laid on Hanumān. "Kausalyā bore the lord of the world" joins Rāma's greatness to his mother's honour. Lakṣmaṇa's sacrifice is stressed: he had given up garlands, jewels, beloved women and lordship to come to the forest. "Like a father to Rāma, like a mother to me" is the essence of his conduct, and "like my father-in-law" shows that she saw Daśaratha's virtues in him. "Seeing him, Rāghava did not miss his father" means that through Lakṣmaṇa's service Rāma did not feel the loss of the departed Daśaratha. Carrying whatever burden he is yoked to is the image of a bull that draws its load untiring, and "not given to much talk" shows he was a man of few words. At the end Sītā called Hanumān himself the one who counts, trusting that his zeal would spur Rāma to action.

"And tell my lord, the hero Rāma, again and again: son of Daśaratha, I will keep myself alive for a month; beyond a month I shall not live; I tell you this by the truth. I am held captive through treachery by Rāvaṇa, doer of evil; you must rescue me, hero, as Kauśikī was rescued from the underworld." Then Sītā untied from her garment the heavenly and lovely crest-jewel and gave it to Hanumān, saying, "This is to be given to Rāghava." Taking that peerless gem, the hero slipped it onto his finger, for his arm would not go into it, so slender had he made himself. Holding the jewel and bowing to her, the best of monkeys walked round Sītā keeping her on his right and stood at her side, bowed low. Filled with great joy at having seen Sītā, in his heart he had already gone to Rāma and to Lakṣmaṇa of the auspicious marks. Taking that precious jewel, which the daughter of King Janaka had kept safe by her own power, he was glad at heart, like a great mountain freed after being shaken by the wind, and he prepared to return. Here the limit of "a month" is shorter even than the "two months" of the previous sarga; the limit of Sītā's endurance is plain. The last verse, in a longer metre, shows the weight lifted from Hanumān's mind, like a mountain grown still after being shaken. "Tell him again and again" shows how grave her message was. The crest-jewel was Sītā's ornament for the head, which she had kept hidden in her garment; Rāma had seen it many times before, so he would surely recognise it. Hanumān wearing the jewel on his finger shows that he had become small again. His circling her and bowing show his devotion to Sītā. "Through treachery" recalls Rāvaṇa's deceit, the abduction in the guise of an ascetic.