सीतायाः संशयः हनूमता तन्निवारणं च

"Then, tiger among men," Hanumān told Rāma, "out of love and affection for you, the queen honoured me and, seeing me in a hurry to go, spoke to me again in her agitation. 'You must tell Rāma, son of Daśaratha, in every way you can,' she said, 'so that he kills Rāvaṇa in battle and wins me back quickly. Or, if you think fit, hero, subduer of foes, stay here one day in some hidden spot; rest, and go tomorrow. While you are near me, monkey, I, unlucky as I am, may find a moment's release from this ripening of grief. Once you, the valiant one, have gone, even to come back again, I shall not be sure even of my life; of that there is no question. The grief of not seeing you will scorch me afresh, beaten down as I am by sorrow upon sorrow, wretched, with nothing but pain for my lot.'" For ten months Sītā had been alone among the rākṣasīs; now, seeing Rāma's messenger for the first time, she found some comfort just in his being near, and could not bear to see him go. She spoke of her grief as a ripening, as if it were the fruit of some past deed, and called herself unlucky, showing her wretchedness. Her plea that he stay just one day shows how deep her loneliness was: even one day would be a great gain. She was sure he would return, and yet the time between seemed unbearable to her, and she piles sorrow upon sorrow as she speaks.

"'And this great doubt seems to stand before me, hero, lord of monkeys,'" she went on. "'Even with the monkeys and bears as your allies, how in the world will those armies of monkeys and bears, or those two sons of the best of men, cross the great ocean that cannot be crossed? Only three beings have the power to leap this sea, sinless one: Garuḍa, son of Vinatā, the Wind, and you. So, hero, best of those who know how to get things done, what way do you see in this undertaking that is so hard to accomplish? Tell me.'" Her doubt was natural: she had seen only Hanumān cross the sea, and the thought of the monkeys building a bridge had not entered her mind. She called him the best of those who know how to get things done, for he was her only support now. In ranking him with Garuḍa and the Wind she was praising him too, yet the strength of one could not carry a whole army, and that was her worry.

"'You alone, slayer of enemy heroes, could certainly accomplish this task,'" she said, "'but the glory of that display of strength would be yours, not Rāma's. If Rāma came with all his forces, killed Rāvaṇa in battle and took me back victorious to his own city, that would bring him glory. As the rākṣasa carried me off from the forest by a trick, out of fear of that hero, so Rāghava should not win me back by stealth. If Kākutstha, crusher of enemy armies, were to fill Laṅkā with his forces and carry me off, that would be worthy of him. So bring it about that his valour shows itself in a way that befits that great-souled hero in battle.'" Here her sense of dharma and her understanding of a warrior's duty shine out: Rāvaṇa had taken her by deceit, and Rāma must win her by open war. Her husband's glory was her highest aim, higher even than her own swift release. Her words were reasoned, for she did not speak from feeling alone but gave her grounds, and modest, for she did not command Hanumān but entreated him. "When I had heard her words, full of meaning, modest and reasoned," Hanumān said, "I gave her the rest of my answer."

"'My lady,' I said, 'Sugrīva, lord of the armies of monkeys and bears, best of leapers and full of strength, is resolved to act for your sake. Under his command are monkeys of great valour, strong and mighty, as swift as a thought of the mind. Nothing checks their course, above, below or sideways; boundless in energy, they never falter even at great tasks. Again and again those glorious and mighty monkeys, travelling the paths of the wind, have circled the earth. Among the forest-dwellers there are many who are greater than I and many who are my equals; there is no one in Sugrīva's company who is less than I. If I have got here, how much more will those mighty ones! The best are not sent as messengers; it is the others who are sent.'" Hanumān's humility is plain here: he called himself the least of Sugrīva's army so that Sītā would believe in the monkeys' power. By the rule of statecraft a messenger is an ordinary man, for a king keeps his best warriors for battle; and so her doubt was answered: if even the messenger had crossed the sea, all those greater than he would cross it too. They are as swift as thought, going wherever the mind goes, and their having circled the earth recalls how the monkeys had searched every quarter for Sītā. So Hanumān removed her doubt by reasoning.

"'So enough of grieving, my lady; let your sorrow go. The leaders of the monkey troops will reach Laṅkā in a single bound. Those two lions among men, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, will come to you riding on my back, like the moon and the sun risen together. Soon, blessed lady, you will see Rāghava, slayer of foes, like a lion, and Lakṣmaṇa bow in hand, arrived at the gate of Laṅkā. Soon you will see the heroic monkeys gathered here, whose weapons are claws and fangs, with the valour of lions and tigers and the size of great elephants. Before long you will hear the roar of the monkey chiefs, huge as mountains and clouds, bellowing on the ridges of the Malaya hills near Laṅkā. And soon you will see Rāghava, subduer of foes, his exile in the forest over, consecrated king in Ayodhyā, with you at his side.'" Hanumān's comfort grew step by step: first the monkeys' arrival, then the sight of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, then the roar of the monkey army, and last the consecration in Ayodhyā, leading her gaze from present sorrow to future happiness. "Enough of grieving" answered her fear for her very life, and "a single bound" answered her question of how they would cross. "Riding on my back" recalls her refusal in the previous sarga to ride on it herself: she would not, but Rāma would. The moon and the sun together show the brothers' gentleness and their splendour at once, and the mention of Ayodhyā at the end foretells, already, the happy close of the whole story.

"And so, when I had gladdened her with auspicious and welcome words, Maithilī, who never speaks like one defeated though she is so tormented by grief for you, found some peace." Hanumān's words had comforted her a little, and with this the Sundara Kāṇḍa comes to its close.