हनूमता सीतासन्देशनिवेदनम्

Asked in this way by the great-souled Rāghava, Hanumān told him, in order, everything Sītā had said. "Best of men," he began, "as a token Queen Jānakī told me of something that once happened at Citrakūṭa, a private incident, recounted exactly as it happened." In the previous sarga Rāma had begged again and again to hear what Sītā had said; here the full answer begins. Something that only husband and wife knew was the surest token, and from here on Hanumān speaks in Sītā's own voice, so that "you" means Rāma.

"'One day at Citrakūṭa,'" he said, repeating her words, "'Jānakī had slept happily beside you, and she woke first. Suddenly a crow swooped down and tore at her between the breasts with its claws. Then, taking your turn, elder brother of Bharata, you slept with your head in the queen's lap, and that same bird came back and began to torment her again. Returning again and again, it clawed her violently, and you were woken, drenched with her blood. Tormented without pause by the crow, and unable to drive it off herself, the queen at last woke you from your happy sleep. Seeing her torn between the breasts, mighty-armed one, you hissed with anger like a venomous serpent and said: "Timid one, who has torn your breast with the tips of his claws? Who is playing with an enraged five-hooded snake?"'" That is, whoever harmed her was playing with death. "'Looking about, you suddenly saw the crow, perched facing her, its sharp claws red with blood; it had not even flown away. That crow, the best of birds, was Indra's own son, they say, come down to earth, swift as the wind.'" So it was no ordinary bird but a god's offspring. The two had rested in turn, first she beside him, then he in her lap, and it was her blood, not her cries, that woke Rāma, for she endured the pain rather than break her husband's sleep, which shows her patience. The crow's insolence is drawn too: even with blood on its claws it did not flee. Hanumān tells all this as something he had heard from Sītā, not seen himself.

"'Then, mighty-armed one, wisest of the wise, your eyes rolling with fury, you resolved on a harsh punishment for the crow. You took a single blade of darbha grass from the mat you were lying on and charged it with the Brahmā weapon, and that little blade blazed like the fire at the end of the world, turned towards the bird. You hurled the blazing grass at the crow, and wherever the crow went, the flaming blade pursued it. Abandoned by all the gods, who were afraid, the crow circled the three worlds and found no one to protect it, for no one dared shield it from Rāma's anger. At last it came back into your presence, subduer of foes, and fell to the ground seeking refuge; and you, the refuge of all, protected it out of compassion, Kākutstha, though it deserved death. But since a Brahmā weapon, once used, cannot be made fruitless, Rāghava, you destroyed only the crow's right eye and spared its life. Then the crow bowed to you, Rāma, standing on the earth, and to King Daśaratha in heaven, and, released, went back to its own home. You are the foremost of those who know the weapons,'" Sītā said, "'strong and virtuous.'" In his hands even a blade of grass became a great weapon. The story shows two of Rāma's qualities: he punishes the wicked, and he protects those who come to him for refuge; the crow was guilty, yet having come for shelter it was not killed, and the honour of the weapon was also kept by taking only one eye. That the crow circled the three worlds shows there is no escape anywhere from Rāma's anger; his compassion is the only refuge. Sītā recalled all this because of the question that follows: he who punished a crow like that, why did he not punish the one who had carried her off?

"'Why then, Rāghava,'" she went on, "'with such power, do you not turn your weapon on the rākṣasas? Neither dānavas nor gandharvas, neither asuras nor the hosts of Maruts can stand against you in battle, Rāma. If you, so valiant, have any regard for me, then let Rāvaṇa be killed in battle at once with well-sharpened arrows. Or else why does Lakṣmaṇa, that best of men, scorcher of foes, not take his brother's command and come to rescue me? Those two tigers among men, with the splendour of wind and fire, whom even the gods cannot overcome, why do they neglect me? Surely some great sin of my own is to blame, that the two of them together, able as they are, scorchers of foes, do not protect me.'" He had used a weapon even on a crow; why not on Rāvaṇa? That was the root of her pain. Her reproach came not from anger but from love and despair: she saw no fault in Rāma but suspected some sin of her own. "If you have any regard for me" means: if you love me, make haste. Her questions were spoken to Hanumān but meant for Rāma, and so Hanumān reported them exactly. "When I heard these piteous and well-spoken words of Vaidehī," he said, "I answered her."

"I said to the noble lady: 'My lady, I swear to you by the truth that Rāma has turned away from everything else in his grief for you, and while Rāma is overwhelmed by sorrow, Lakṣmaṇa too is in torment. They are not neglecting you; they simply did not know where you were. Somehow, with great effort, I have found you, so this is no time for lament. Believe that in this very hour you will see the end of your sorrows, lovely lady. Those two princes, tigers among men, scorchers of foes, spurred on by the hope of seeing you, will burn Laṅkā to ashes. Rāghava will kill fierce Rāvaṇa in battle with all his kin, and surely take you back to his own city, lovely lady. Now, faultless one, give me some token that Rāma will know well and that will bring him joy.' Then, looking round in every direction to make sure no rākṣasa was watching, she took out this excellent jewel that had fastened her braid, untied it from her garment and gave it to me, mighty one. I took the jewel in both hands, reverently, for your sake, beloved of the Raghus, and that jewel is now in your hand." Rāma had turned from everything else because of his grief for her. Hanumān first removed Sītā's fear that they were neglecting her; then he foretold the future, Laṅkā burned, Rāvaṇa killed, the return to Ayodhyā; and last he asked for a token, so that Rāma would believe his envoy. Her looking round in every direction shows her caution. The jewel is the centre of this sarga, witness to her life, her faithfulness and her hope in Rāma, and Hanumān had taken it for Rāma's sake, not his own.

"Bowing my head to her, I made haste to come back. When she saw me set on going and swelling my body for the leap, the fair daughter of Janaka was wretched; her face streamed with tears and her voice was choked with weeping. Alarmed at my readiness to leap and struck by a surge of grief, Sītā said to me: 'You are fortunate, great monkey, for you will see mighty-armed, lotus-eyed Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa, mighty-armed and glorious, my husband's brother.'" What was so hard for her was easy for the messenger, and in that there is great pathos; the monkey would soon see the one she could not, which shows her pain of separation plainly. "When Sītā had said this, I told Maithilī: 'Climb onto my back quickly, my lady, daughter of Janaka, and this very day, blessed, dark-eyed lady, I will show you your husband Rāghava, with Sugrīva and Lakṣmaṇa.' But the queen said: 'It would not be right, great monkey, bull among monkeys, for me to climb onto your back of my own free will. That the rākṣasa once touched my body, hero, what could I do then, overpowered by fate? It was not by my will. Go, tiger among monkeys, to where those two sons of the king are.' Having said this, she went on to give me a further message." Hanumān's offer was made in pure devotion, wanting only to bring his lady swiftly to his lord. Her answer shows a faithful wife's dharma: even in her danger she would not accept another man's touch, and she wanted Rāma himself to come and take her. Rāvaṇa's touch had been forced on her, overpowered as she was by fate, and so there was no fault in her; but now that she was free to choose, she would not abandon dharma.

"'Hanumān,' she said, 'tell Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, both like lions, and Sugrīva with his ministers, and all the monkeys, that I am well. And speak to mighty-armed Rāghava in such a way that he will bring me across this flood of sorrow in which I am held. When you reach Rāma, tell him of this fierce torrent of my grief and of the threats these rākṣasas make against me. May your road be auspicious, hero among monkeys.' These, O king, are the words your noble, self-restrained Sītā spoke in her sorrow. Weigh them as I have told them, and be assured that Sītā is safe and whole." Sorrow is the water in which she is held captive, and Rāma alone is the means of crossing it; with her blessing on his road she sent the messenger away. And so Hanumān closed his report: she was alive, and she was waiting for Rāma.