सीतायाः सन्देहः हनूमतः आश्वासनम् अरिष्टगिरेः उत्पतनं च

Then Hanumān went to Jānakī where she sat at the foot of the śiṃśapā tree, saluted her and said, "Thank heaven I see you here unharmed." These were his first words after the burning of Laṅkā, and the fear of the previous sarga was here laid to rest before his eyes. As he was setting out to leave, Sītā, gazing at him again and again, spoke to him out of love for her husband. "If you think fit, dear sinless one," she said, "stay here one day in some well-hidden place; rest, and go tomorrow. While you are near, monkey, the boundless grief of unlucky me might ease for a moment. Once you are gone, tiger among monkeys, I cannot be sure even of my life until you come back. Not seeing you again, hero, will tear me apart, for I have fallen from sorrow into greater sorrow and am wasted by misery and grief. And this doubt, hero, seems to stand before me. Mighty as your allies the monkeys and bears are, how will those hosts of monkeys and bears, or those two princes, sons of the best of men, ever cross this ocean that is so hard to cross? Only three beings have the power to leap it: Garuḍa, son of Vinatā, you, and the Wind. So now that the task has come to this difficult pass, what remedy do you see? You are skilled in such affairs. You alone, slayer of enemy heroes, would be enough to accomplish it, and the glory of its fruit would be yours. But if Rāma of Kakutstha's line, crusher of hostile armies, were to fill Laṅkā with his forces and take me away himself, that would be worthy of him. So bring it about that what he does is fitting to the valour of that great-souled hero in battle." Two feelings meet in Sītā here: the fear of parting from Hanumān, and concern for Rāma's honour. She knew Hanumān could carry her away, yet she wanted her husband's glory: only if Rāma came himself, defeated Rāvaṇa and took her back would his duty as a warrior be fulfilled. If Hanumān brought her, the world would say that Rāma had got his wife back through a messenger, and that would not befit his valour. It is the thought of a warrior's wife; earlier she had refused to ride on Hanumān's back, not wishing to touch another man and wanting Rāma's fame protected, and here she says the same thing more gently. Her plea that he stay one day is a moving picture of her loneliness: for ten months she had been surrounded by rākṣasīs, and now she had seen, for the first time, a messenger from her own people and did not want to let him go even for a moment. His coming had given her back the hope of living, and she feared his going would take it away, so her plea was not mere hospitality but something to hold her life up. Her doubt about crossing the sea was reasonable too, since she believed that only Garuḍa, the Wind and Hanumān could do it. Her words show both humility and intelligence. She called him by many names, dear one, sinless one, hero, tiger among monkeys, bull among monkeys, all showing her gratitude and affection; and in saying "you are skilled in affairs" she both asked the question and pointed to where the answer lay, showing her trust in his judgement. Her concern was not only for her own release but for Rāma's glory.

Hearing her words, full of meaning, courteous and reasoned, the heroic Hanumān answered. "My lady, Sugrīva, lord of the armies of monkeys and bears, best of leapers and full of courage, is resolved upon your cause. Surrounded by thousands of crores of monkeys, Vaidehī, Sugrīva lord of the leapers will come quickly. And those two heroes, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, best of men, will come together to the city of Laṅkā and shatter it with their arrows. Having killed the rākṣasa and his hosts, Rāma, the delight of the Raghus, will before long take you, lovely lady, and go back to his own city. Take heart, and may good fortune be with you. Wait for the time; soon you will see Rāvaṇa killed by Rāma in battle. When the lord of the rākṣasas has been killed with his sons, ministers and kin, you will be reunited with Rāma as Rohiṇī is with the moon. Kākutstha will come soon, with the foremost of the monkeys and bears, and when he has conquered his enemies in battle he will put an end to your grief." Having comforted Vaidehī in this way, Hanumān, son of the Wind, made up his mind to go and bowed to her in farewell. His answer did not meet her doubt head on; he did not explain how they would cross the sea, but spoke of the greatness of the army and Rāma's might, and so made her trust firm: where there are crores of monkeys and Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, a way will be found. He answered her not with argument but with confidence, which was an envoy's good judgement. "Wait for the time" was her task now, patient waiting; the image of Rohiṇī and the moon is used of Sītā and Rāma again and again in the Rāmāyaṇa; and three times he said "soon", assuring her of speed. His speech was brief but firm, moving in order from Sugrīva's resolve to the size of the army, the valour of the two brothers, Rāvaṇa's death and at last her reunion with Rāma, a seed of the whole Yuddha Kāṇḍa. He did not refuse her plea to stay outright; he bowed courteously and made ready to go, and she, reassured, let him go.

Having killed the foremost rākṣasas and proclaimed his own name, comforted Vaidehī and shown his supreme strength, thrown the city into confusion and outwitted Rāvaṇa, displayed his terrible might and bowed to Vaidehī, Hanumān resolved to go back across the middle of the ocean. This list is like a certificate of the success of his mission; he had outwitted Rāvaṇa by letting himself be bound in order to reach his court. Then that tiger among monkeys, crusher of foes, eager to see his master, climbed Ariṣṭa, the best of mountains, which stood near Laṅkā. The poet describes the mountain as if it were a living person. It was graced with dark stretches of forest thick with tall padmaka trees. The clouds hanging between its peaks were like an upper garment, and it seemed as though the bright rays of the sun were lovingly waking it. In the gleaming minerals scattered over it, it seemed to open its eyes; in the deep roar of its torrents, to recite the Veda; in the sound of its many springs, to sing clearly. In its tossing deodars it seemed to stand with arms raised; in the thunder of its waterfalls, to cry out on every side; in its dark, quivering autumn clouds, to tremble. It seemed to pipe in its kīcaka bamboos stirred by the wind and to hiss in rage through its fearsome great serpents; in its caverns made deep by mist, to brood in meditation; on its foothills, like the feet of clouds, to stride out on every side; and with its cloud-garlanded peaks, to yawn into the sky. It was strewn with many summits and graced with many caves, covered with sāla, tāla and karṇa trees and many bamboos, adorned with spreading, flowering canopies of creepers, filled with herds of beasts of every kind, streaked with trickling minerals, full of springs and crowded with heaps of rock. Great seers, yakṣas, gandharvas, kiṃnaras and serpents lived there; it was thick with creepers and trees, lions dwelt in its caves, tigers and other beasts thronged it, and its trees were rich in sweet roots and fruit. That mountain the son of the Wind, the best of leapers, climbed. Each "as though" carries a new fancy, and the mountain seems alive: it reads the Veda, sings, meditates, hisses, yawns; at one moment it is a calm sage, at another an angry warrior, at another a singer. Every part of it answers to a part of a person, the clouds its garment, the minerals its eyes, the deodars its arms, the foothills its feet, the peaks a yawning mouth. Then comes a list of its trees, beasts, minerals, springs, rocks and divine inhabitants, showing its abundance: all life was there. The whole description runs as a single long sentence, and only at its very end does the poet say that Hanumān climbed it, so that the reader seems to climb with him. The description also mirrors Hanumān's joy: with his task done, the whole world seemed to smile on him, and the pace of the story slows and the mind is at peace. At the beginning of the Sundara Kāṇḍa Mount Mahendra had been his starting point; now Ariṣṭa was the starting point of his return.

Urged on by joy and by his eagerness to see Rāma, Hanumān pressed down with the soles of his feet on the lovely slopes, and the rocks broke apart with a roar, crushed to powder. Having climbed that lord of mountains, the great monkey grew in size, longing to reach the northern shore of the salt sea from the southern. From the top of the mountain the heroic son of the Wind looked out over the fearsome ocean, haunted by fearsome serpents. Then, like the wind itself, the Wind's own son took to the sky, the tiger among monkeys, heading from the southern quarter to the northern; the story now turns towards Kiṣkindhā, towards Rāma. Pressed down by the monkey, that best of mountains cried out with all its creatures and sank into the surface of the earth, its peaks shaking and its trees falling. Crushed by the force of his thighs, the blossoming trees fell broken to the ground as if struck by Indra's thunderbolt. The terrible roar of mighty lions crushed in the depths of the caves was heard as if it would split the sky. The vidyādhara women, frightened, their clothes flung awry and their ornaments in disarray, flew up suddenly from the mountain. Huge, powerful serpents of deadly venom, with flickering tongues, writhed with their heads and necks crushed. Kiṃnaras, serpents, gandharvas, yakṣas and vidyādharas left the stricken mountain and took to the sky. And that glorious mountain, ten yojanas broad and thirty yojanas high, pressed down by the mighty monkey, sank with its trees and towering peaks into the underworld and was brought level with the earth. Then, wishing to leap playfully across the fearsome salt sea, whose shores are lashed by breakers, the monkey sprang up into the sky. This passage echoes the opening of the Sundara Kāṇḍa, when Mount Mahendra was crushed in the same way, and the same pictures of frightened vidyādharīs, serpents and lions return, so that the going and the coming answer each other. But here the mountain sinks entirely into the underworld, a sign of how much greater his force was. The destruction moves from small to great, the rocks crushed, then the trees falling, then the lions roaring, then the creatures fleeing, and last the whole mountain sinking, so that the measure of his speed grows step by step; and the mountain's size is given to show that so vast a mountain was levelled. The word "playfully" matters: what he had first done with great effort he now did as if in sport, because his task was done and his heart was glad. The mountain was not his enemy, yet it suffered; in the rush of a great deed even the innocent are sometimes crushed, and its crying out shows it too as a living, suffering thing. In the end the mountain lay still and level while Hanumān shone in the sky, a contrast the poet draws with skill. The mood here is wonder. In the next sarga comes the description of the sky as an ocean.