हनूमत्सीतासंवादः

So charged by Rāma, Hanumān, son of the Wind, went into the city of Laṅkā, and the night-rangers honoured him as he passed. Once inside he took leave of Vibhīṣaṇa and, with the king's permission, entered the grove of trees in due form. His courtesy is worth noticing: Laṅkā was now Vibhīṣaṇa's kingdom, so he went in only with its king's consent. The first time he had crept into Laṅkā secretly, like a thief; now the rākṣasas themselves did him honour. Making himself known to Sītā, he saw her sitting joyless at the foot of a tree with rākṣasīs all around her, unwashed and unadorned, as anxious as the star Rohiṇī when a malign planet presses on her. Quiet, bowing low and humble, he went up to her and saluted her and stood waiting; the three words the poet uses for his posture sum up his devotion and his modesty. Seeing the mighty Hanumān arrive, the queen at first sat silent, for after so long a captivity she did not at once take in a messenger appearing so suddenly; then she recognised him and was glad. It was in this very spot, at the foot of the śiṃśapā tree among the rākṣasīs, that Hanumān had first seen her in the Sundara Kāṇḍa. Now he stood there again, but everything had changed: then he had been hidden, afraid, crouching among the branches; now he came bearing news of victory, honoured by the rākṣasas themselves. Sītā alone was as she had been, soiled, joyless, still like a prisoner, because she did not yet know that the war was won. Seeing her gentle face, Hanumān, best of monkeys, began to give her the whole of Rāma's message.

“Vaidehī,” he said, “Rāma is well, and Sugrīva and Lakṣmaṇa with him. The conqueror of his enemies has achieved his purpose and destroyed his foe, and he sends you word that all is well. With Vibhīṣaṇa's help, Rāma, with the monkeys and the valiant Lakṣmaṇa, has slain Rāvaṇa, my queen. I bring you this happy news and I greet you once again. It was through your power, lady who knows dharma, that Rāma won this great victory in battle. Be at ease now, Sītā, and let your fever of fear pass: Rāvaṇa, your enemy, is dead and Laṅkā is in our hands. And these are Rāma's own words: ‘Sleepless, set on winning you back, I bridged the great ocean and I have kept my vow. You need not be alarmed at living in Rāvaṇa's palace, for the lordship of Laṅkā has been placed under Vibhīṣaṇa's rule. So take heart and rest easy; you are as good as in your own home. And here is Vibhīṣaṇa himself coming, full of joy and eager to see you.’” Rāma's message moves in order: his welfare, the victory, the vow fulfilled, and reassurance. The words “through your power” matter most of all, for in them Rāma lays his victory at the feet of Sītā's faithfulness. “Sleepless” betrays what the separation had cost him: he had not slept even at night in his struggle to win her back. Laṅkā was now a friend's kingdom, and so it could be to her like her own home. Hanumān repeats the message just as Rāma gave it, keeping the “I” that is Rāma's; this is the messenger's duty, never to alter his master's words. The mention of Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva and Vibhīṣaṇa recalls how all had worked together, and in saying “I greet you” Hanumān adds his own congratulations. “Be at ease, free of fever” marks the end of a long fear: Rāma wished that every anxiety in her mind — dread of Rāvaṇa, the threats of the rākṣasīs, the pain of separation from her husband — should now be driven away. Even the news of Vibhīṣaṇa's coming was meant to comfort her, for the new king of Laṅkā was her friend.

At these words the moon-faced queen was so overwhelmed with joy that she could not speak. When she made no reply, the best of monkeys asked her, “What are you thinking, my queen? Why don't you say anything to me?” Then Sītā, who had never strayed from the path of dharma, answered in a voice choked with tears of happiness: “When I heard this dear news of my husband's victory, joy overcame me and for a moment I had no words. I have been thinking, monkey, and I can find nothing to give you that would be a fitting return for such tidings. Nowhere on the whole earth, gentle friend, do I see anything which, given to you for this news, could bring you a happiness to match it. Gold, riches, jewels of every kind, even kingship over the three worlds — none of them is worth these words.” She was a king's daughter, and yet today she had nothing about her to give; still she longed to honour the bearer of good news, as she had once given Hanumān her crest-jewel in the Sundara Kāṇḍa. And her gratitude shows that such news is beyond all price. Hearing Vaidehī, the monkey joined his palms in delight and, standing before her, replied: “Lady devoted to your husband's good, you who longed for his victory, blameless one, only you could speak such loving words. These words of yours, gentle lady, so warm and so full of meaning, are worth more than heaps of jewels, more even than the kingship of the gods. In truth I have already gained the kingdom of the gods and every such blessing, since I see Rāma victorious, his enemies slain, and safe.” His answer lays bare a devotion that asks nothing: Rāma's victory is his whole reward. The good of one's master is the servant's highest gain, and this is the ideal the Rāmāyaṇa holds up. The poet traces the course of Sītā's joy with delicacy: first silence, since great happiness can stop the tongue just as great grief can; then tears; then a faltering voice; and at last words of gratitude.

Hearing him, Maithilī, Janaka's daughter, spoke still more graciously to the son of the Wind: “Speech that has every excellence, graced with sweetness and ruled by the eightfold intelligence — only you are capable of it. You are a son the Wind may well be proud of, and wholly righteous. Strength, valour, learning, courage, prowess, the highest skill, energy, forbearance, steadiness, firmness and modesty — these and many other fine qualities are all in you, beyond any doubt.” The eightfold intelligence, as the commentators explain it, is the willingness to listen, listening, grasping, retaining, reasoning for, reasoning against, understanding the meaning and knowing the truth of a thing. Sītā counts Hanumān's virtues one by one: those of the body, like strength, valour and prowess; those of the mind, like learning and skill; and those of character, like forbearance, steadiness and modesty. This praise is itself her reward to him: she who had just said she could find nothing to give now honours him with words, and in calling him the Wind's worthy son she adds to his father's glory too. Through her eyes the whole of Hanumān's character is set before us. Modesty comes last in her list, yet it crowns all the rest, for mighty as he was he was always humble.

Then, calm and modest, his palms joined in joy, still standing before her, Hanumān spoke to Sītā again. “If you will allow it,” he said, “I want to kill all these rākṣasīs who used to threaten you. While you were suffering in the Aśoka grove, you who hold your husband as your god, I heard these cruel creatures, dreadful in looks and in conduct, with their crueller eyes and misshapen faces, speaking harshly to you again and again at Rāvaṇa's command. I heard it here myself, my queen. These deformed, hideous, savage creatures with their cruel hair and eyes and their dreadful talk — I want to kill them with blows of every kind; grant me this as a favour. With my fists, with kicks of my heels, with my great arms, with blows of my shins and knees, grinding them with my teeth, cutting off their ears and noses and tearing out their hair, I want to strike down and kill every one of those who wronged you. Glorious lady, I will beat them with blow upon blow and have those fierce ones slain who threatened you.” His anger was natural; in the Sundara Kāṇḍa he had watched with his own eyes as the rākṣasīs terrified her, and now a hero's fury and the wish to avenge his mistress's humiliation spoke in him. The long list of blows and the piling up of words for their ugliness and cruelty show how fierce his rage was. Yet “if you will allow it” shows his humility: he would do nothing of his own will, only with Sītā's consent, and so his passion is held in check by his modesty. The proposal also prepares the ground for what follows, where Sītā's compassion will shine out.

The gentle Sītā, always tender towards the wretched, thought and weighed the matter, and then said to Hanumān: “Best of monkeys, who would be angry with servants who are bound to obey a king and act on another's orders? It is through the unevenness of my fortune and through wrongs done in the past that all this has come to me; one reaps what one has sown. Do not talk like this, mighty-armed one; this is the supreme course of fate. It was settled that my lot would bring me this suffering, and so, powerless as I am, I forgive Rāvaṇa's servants here. The rākṣasīs threatened me because the rākṣasa ordered them to; now that he is dead, son of the Wind, they threaten me no more. There is an old verse full of dharma, monkey, that a bear once sang in the presence of a tiger; listen to it: ‘The good do not take on the evil of those who do evil to them; one's own code must be kept, for conduct is the ornament of the good.’ Whether people are wicked or virtuous, or even deserve to die, a noble person must show them compassion, for there is no one who never does wrong. Even to cruel evildoers who make sport of harming the world, even while they are doing wrong, nothing unkind should be done.” Sītā's compassion is the heart of this sarga, and her reasoning has three strands. She places the blame on the rākṣasīs' master, since they only obeyed him; she finds the cause of her own suffering in her own past deeds; and she holds that the good must be kind to all. The story of the tiger and the bear runs like this: a tiger chased by a hunter begged a bear sitting in a tree to throw the hunter down to it; the bear would not hand over one who had come to him for shelter; later, when the tiger urged the hunter to throw the bear down, the bear still did not take revenge, but sang the verse, “the good do not take on the evil of others.” “There is no one who never does wrong” means that everyone errs at some time, so kindness is owed to all. To keep one's code is the good person's rule of conduct, to be kept even when others behave badly; to do good even to one who has done harm is the subtle way of dharma. In this teaching Sītā shows herself not an ordinary woman but dharma in living form: she who had been tormented by these women for ten months is the one who protects them. That is why tradition knows her as compassion embodied.

Hearing this, Hanumān, a master of speech, answered Rāma's blameless wife: “You are indeed a fitting wife for Rāma, rich in virtue as he is. Give me your message in return, my queen; I will go back to where Rāghava is.” And Vaidehī, Janaka's daughter, said only this: “I want to see my husband, who loves those devoted to him.” Her message is as short as it could be: after so long a separation she had just one desire, and in calling Rāma loving to his devotees she counts herself among them. The wise son of the Wind, to add to her joy, replied: “Today you will see Rāma, his face like the full moon, with Lakṣmaṇa beside him, his friends secure and his enemies destroyed, as Śacī sees Indra, lord of the gods.” The comparison with Indra hints at the kingship that is now Rāma's. So speaking to Sītā, who shone like the goddess of fortune herself, the splendid Hanumān went back to where Rāghava was, and at once the best of monkeys told Rāghava, who was the equal of the lord of the gods, everything the daughter of Janaka's line had said in reply, in its proper order — her joy, her praise, her compassion and her longing to see him. At the end of the sarga Sītā's hope seems about to be fulfilled: today she will see her husband. Yet there is a sad irony in her happiness, for in the next sarga Rāma will receive her in a way quite unlike what she expects.