हनूमता रामाय सीतावृत्तान्तनिवेदनम्

Then the monkeys went to Mount Prasravaṇa with its many-coloured woods, the hill near Kiṣkindhā where Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa had spent the rains, and bowed their heads to Rāma and to mighty Lakṣmaṇa. Placing the crown prince Aṅgada in front and saluting Sugrīva, as royal decorum required, they began to tell the news of Sītā: how she was confined in Rāvaṇa's inner apartments, how the rākṣasīs threatened her, how devoted she was to Rāma, and how a limit had been set to her life, the two months Rāvaṇa had given her. When the monkeys had told all this in Rāma's presence, they fell silent. The first word Rāma caught was that Vaidehī was unharmed, and his heart was a little eased; their brief report only sharpened his longing to know more. Hearing that she was unharmed, he asked: "Where is Queen Sītā staying? And how does she feel towards me? Tell me everything about Vaidehī, monkeys." His two questions came in order, first where she was and then what she felt, and in asking how she felt towards him his love and his concern for her constancy both show. At Rāma's words the monkeys, in his presence, urged Hanumān to speak, for he knew Sītā's story best and was the one fit to tell it in full.

Hearing them, Hanumān, son of the Wind, bowed his head towards the southern quarter in honour of Queen Sītā; in his mind he bowed once more to the lady he had seen and come back from. Then, knowing well how to speak, he told how he had found her. First he gave Rāma the divine golden jewel, blazing with its own brilliance, so that the jewel itself would bear witness and remove all Rāma's doubts before a word was said; then, with folded hands, he said: "I leapt across the ocean, a hundred leagues wide, and went in search of Janaka's daughter Sītā, longing to see her. There is a city called Laṅkā, belonging to the evil-minded Rāvaṇa." He began his story in order, the leap, the search, the city, but told of his own exploits only briefly; what mattered was his purpose, not his toil.

"It stands on the southern shore of the southern ocean, and there, in Rāvaṇa's inner apartments, I saw the virtuous Sītā. Rāma, she lives on with all her heart's desire set on you. I saw her in the midst of the rākṣasīs, threatened by them again and again and without end, guarded in the pleasure grove by hideous rākṣasīs. The queen, who was used to happiness with you, hero, is suffering sorrow. Confined in Rāvaṇa's inner apartments, closely guarded by rākṣasīs, wearing a single braid, wretched, her thoughts wholly on you, she sleeps on the ground, pale of limb like a lotus plant when winter comes; she has nothing to do with Rāvaṇa, and she is resolved to die. Somehow, Kākutstha, I found the queen whose heart is set on you, and, sinless one, by slowly recounting the fame of the Ikṣvāku line, tiger among men, I gradually won her trust. Then I spoke with her and explained the whole matter. When she heard of the friendship of Rāma and Sugrīva she rejoiced. Her conduct is steadfast and her devotion always fixed on you. So, noble one, bull among men, I found Janaka's daughter, given up to fierce austerity out of devotion to you." Hanumān described her state on three levels: her surroundings, guarded and threatened by the rākṣasīs; her body, the single braid, the bare ground for a bed, the pale limbs; and her mind, her thoughts on Rāma and her resolve to die. That she had "nothing to do with Rāvaṇa" matters especially: she wanted nothing from him and rejected him utterly. As a lotus withers in the cold season, so her radiance had faded, and the contrast between the happiness she was used to and the sorrow she now bore struck Rāma's heart with special force. Hanumān also told of his own method, praising the Ikṣvākus and winning her trust slowly, which showed his good sense. He did not hide her sorrow, but he told of her fortitude and constancy too, so that Rāma's grief might turn to resolve; and by ending with "out of devotion to you" he made it clear that Rāma alone was the object of her austerity. The poet plays on Rāma's name, calling Sītā the lovely woman whose desire is set on Rāma.

"As a token," Hanumān went on, "she told me, wise Rāghava, what happened in your presence at Citrakūṭa with the crow, exactly as it happened. 'Son of the Wind,' Jānakī said to me, 'tell Rāma all of this again, just as you have seen it. And give him this, which I have guarded with care, and say these words to him while Sugrīva is listening: I have kept this lovely crest-jewel carefully for you; remember the tilaka mark of red arsenic. This lovely jewel, born of the waters, I send back to you; in my distress, looking at it, I used to rejoice as though I were looking at you, sinless one. I shall keep myself alive for a month, son of Daśaratha; beyond a month, in the power of the rākṣasas, I shall not live.' So Sītā spoke to me, thin and wasted, true to her dharma, shut up in Rāvaṇa's inner apartments, her eyes wide like a frightened doe's. This is all I have to tell you, Rāghava, just as it happened. Now, by every means, let a crossing of the ocean's waters be arranged." Knowing that the two princes had taken heart, and having given the token to Rāghava, the son of the Wind told everything the queen had said, from beginning to end and in full. Sītā's message had three parts: the tokens, the crow, the tilaka and the jewel; the time limit, one month; and the way it was to be delivered, with Sugrīva listening. The tokens were things only Sītā and Rāma knew, so there was no room for doubt. Asking that it be said in Sugrīva's hearing was especially wise, for once the message was delivered before him, he too would be bound to help. The jewel had been her refuge, standing for Rāma himself, and in sending it back she was giving Rāma even her last support; and the month's limit showed how urgent Rāma's task had become. Hanumān's last words moved from report to duty, "let a crossing be arranged", for a good envoy brings not only news but a proposal for what to do.