सीतायाः रामसमीपानयनम्

The wise monkey saluted the lotus-eyed Rāma, finest of all bowmen, and said to him: “You should see the queen Maithilī, who is burning with grief. She is the reason all this was undertaken, and in her all these deeds bear their fruit. Overwhelmed by sorrow, her eyes swimming with tears, she has heard of your victory and longs to see you. Because she learned to trust me at our first meeting, she told me, her eyes full of tears, ‘I want to see my husband.’” Hanumān reminds Rāma that everything — the bridge, the war, the slaying of Rāvaṇa — had been done for Sītā, so that seeing her was the fruit of the whole enterprise. Her trust went back to the Sundara Kāṇḍa, when the ring Hanumān brought from Rāma first convinced her, and it was that same trust that let her send him her message now. Hanumān knew Rāma's heart, and he described her grief and longing at length, as if pleading her cause, so that Rāma would be moved to see her quickly. But Rāma's response was strange. He did not leap up in joy; he fell suddenly into thought, his eyes a little wet with tears, and, sighing deeply and looking at the ground, he spoke to Vibhīṣaṇa, who stood near him, dark as a cloud. A conflict was at work in his mind, between the wish to see his beloved and the fear of what people would say. His brooding shows that he was not only a husband but a king, whose every act the world watches, and so he moved with care.

“Have Sītā bathed and brought here without delay,” he said, “anointed with heavenly unguents and adorned with heavenly ornaments.” The words “without delay” betray an eagerness he kept hidden. At Rāma's command Vibhīṣaṇa hurried into the inner apartments and had his own women tell Sītā. Then the glorious lord of the rākṣasas, seeing that noble lady, raised his joined palms to his head and said humbly: “Vaidehī, put on heavenly unguents and heavenly ornaments and mount the carriage. Blessings on you: your husband wishes to see you.” Vaidehī answered him, “Lord of the rākṣasas, I want to see my husband just as I am, without bathing.” It was the sight of him she wanted, not finery. But Vibhīṣaṇa replied, “You should do exactly as your husband Rāma has said,” and on hearing that, Maithilī, whose husband was her god, a good woman wholly given to him, said simply, “So be it.” That single word shows her obedience: she set aside her own wish to follow his. So Sītā bathed her head and was dressed by attendants, and put on costly ornaments and costly garments. Rāma perhaps intended that a king's wife should come before the assembly in dress befitting a king's house, and everything about her coming spoke of royal dignity: a shining litter hung with precious cloth, and many rākṣasas guarding her as Vibhīṣaṇa brought her. Vibhīṣaṇa's courtesy throughout — the blessing he spoke, the women he sent to serve her — is marked. Though he knew the great-souled Rāma was lost in thought, he went up to him, bowed and announced joyfully that Sītā had come, for news like this could not wait.

When Rāghava, destroyer of his enemies, heard that she had come, she who had lived so long in the rākṣasa's house, he felt anger, joy and sorrow all at once: joy that his beloved had come, anger that she had lived in another man's house, and sorrow at his own helpless position. Weighing carefully how Sītā was arriving in a carriage, and thinking of how the world would see it, Rāghava, unhappy, said to Vibhīṣaṇa: “Gentle lord of the rākṣasas, always devoted to my victory, let Vaidehī come to me at once.” That word “unhappy” carries great weight: Rāma was not pleased. At his words Vibhīṣaṇa, who knew what was proper, promptly had the ground cleared. Men in jackets and turbans, holding canes and rattles, went round on every side driving the warriors back, and the crowds of bears, monkeys and rākṣasas, pushed back from all sides, stood off at a distance. As they were driven back a huge uproar went up, like the roar of the ocean whipped up by the wind, for that vast multitude of monkeys and bears was itself like a sea. Clearing the way was the usual custom for protecting the women of a royal house, but Rāma could not bear it. When he saw his people driven off and alarmed on every side, out of kindness for them and indignation at their treatment he stopped it; the monkeys were his own, men who had been ready to give their lives for him, and he would not see them chased away with sticks. Then, in anger, as if he would burn Vibhīṣaṇa up with his eyes, Rāma spoke words of reproach to that wise rākṣasa. The poet does not state Rāma's inner struggle outright; he only hints at it with the word “unhappy” and the mingling of anger, joy and sorrow, and the reader senses that something unwelcome is about to happen.

“Why do you harass these people without regard for me?” he said. “Stop this disturbance; these people are my own. It is not houses, or clothes, or walls, or screens, or royal honours like these that cover a woman; her conduct is her covering. In times of calamity or hardship, in war, at a bride's choosing of her husband, at a sacrifice or at a wedding, there is no wrong in a woman being seen. She is in distress and beset by hardship, and there can be no fault in her being seen, least of all in my presence. So let her leave the litter and come on foot, and let these forest-dwellers see Vaidehī at my side.” Rāma's words can be read in two ways. On the one hand they state a noble principle about a woman's dignity: not clothes or walls but character is her true protection. On the other, his command that she walk and be seen by all prepares the way for the ordeal to come, as though he wished her conduct to be laid open before everyone. That she was in calamity meant the ordinary rules did not apply, and custom itself allows women to be seen by all at a bride's choosing, a sacrifice or a wedding; in his husband's presence especially, a wife's being seen can be no fault. Thus Rāma supports his order with the rules of dharma and the usage of the world, not his own will alone. Beneath his words lies a hidden struggle, whether to receive Sītā publicly or to put her to the test, and the harshness of his tone astonished everyone.

At Rāma's words, Vibhīṣaṇa, thoughtful, humbly led Sītā up to him. Hearing what Rāma had said, Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva and the monkey Hanumān were deeply pained; from his harsh looks and gestures, which showed no regard for his wife, they guessed that Rāghava was displeased with Sītā. These three were his dearest companions and knew his moods, and their distress foreshadows the unhappiness that follows. Followed by Vibhīṣaṇa, Maithilī came towards her husband on foot before them all, shrinking into herself with shame. Yet with wonder, with joy and with love, she whose husband was her god, her face gentler still, gazed up at his gentle face: wonder, because after so long a time seeing him seemed like a dream; joy, at seeing him victorious; love, from the affection natural to her. Three feelings are Sītā's here, as anger, joy and sorrow were Rāma's, and the sarga is built on this balance. And when at last she saw the face of her beloved, unseen for so long and lovely as the full moon rising, the weariness of her heart fell away, and her own face shone like the spotless moon. Two gazes meet here and clash: Sītā looks at her husband with love and delight, while Rāma's bearing is harsh and cold towards her. Lakṣmaṇa and the others understood this and grieved, but Sītā did not yet know it; she saw only the dear face she had missed so long. In the next sarga that happiness will be shattered.