The son of the wind, renowned in heaven and earth for valour, chivalry, and boldness, resolved—despite his might—to tread with caution. At each step, he tempered courage with thought. When at last he beheld the noble Sita, joy surged like golden flame within him. Yet swiftly was it tempered by concern—for he saw her frail, forlorn, encircled by grim and monstrous forms.
Tears, unbidden, brimmed in his eyes, for his heart, deep in devotion and pity, trembled at her state. Thoughts gathered within him like clouds before a storm. How to earn her trust? For one such as she, trained in the sacred moral code and shaped by righteousness, would not yield easily to appearances.
She—word and thought of reverence to the loyal Lakshmana, model of virtue to sages and hermits alike—now dwelt among a cruel herd of demonesses. But even such darkness, he knew, could not eclipse the eternal law of time. None may escape it. All creatures are bound.
She knows—O yes, she knows—that Rama and Lakshmana, warriors without peer, will not leave evil unpunished. Those who dared tear away the soul of their life, the very heart of their world, shall not go unchallenged. Each breath of Sita’s, rich with virtue, emits an aura of sacred light, restraining even grief from full bloom.
Hanuman, keen of mind and heart, assessed her stature: noble in lineage, adorned with virtues, regal in form—a perfect match to Rama, like Lakshmi to Vishnu. A quiet rapture overtook him. His mission now glowed with divine promise. Surely, with such grace at its heart, success was certain.
He recalled: Rama slew the mighty Vali, transformed the dread Kabandha, and struck down Viradha in Dandakaranya as Indra once struck down Shambara. For Sita’s sake, forests were cleansed of demon herds. Khara, Dushana, and Trisira—commanders of dark legions—had fallen before his divine bow. Vali, once thought unconquerable, was cast down, and Sugriva crowned, all in the name of Sita.
And now Hanuman, blessed by Rama and Sugriva, had crossed the vast and dreadful ocean—an impossible feat—for her. If all worlds stood against Rama, they would be felled as one, such is the undivided force of his divine wrath.
How can the dark might of the demon world restrain her? She, drawn forth from the womb of Earth by the sacred plough of Janaka, borne of the five elements, raised in dharma. She is the beloved of Rama, favoured of King Dasaratha, rightful queen of Ayodhya. She waits, not in weakness, but in strength—in faith that Rama shall return by rightful, sacred means.
And Hanuman thought further. Her love and loyalty, her moral bond to Rama, have led her to forsake food, comfort, and care. She has prepared, if fate so requires, to lay down her life to uphold chastity. She, who once lived an ascetic’s joy beside her lord and under Lakshmana’s watchful gaze, has had all stolen by the demon king.
Her smile, her peace, her mirth among flowers—all lost. And yet, though placed amidst treachery, she lives still, sustained by faith in Rama. When Rama shall see her again, the joy will outshine his coronation as king.
She is alone: no kin, no companions, no aid. But her soul clings to one hope—his presence. Hanuman, watching her in silence, sees: she does not regard her captors, nor the grove, nor even the beauty of nature. Her eyes seek only Rama. Her thoughts pulse with his image.
To her, virtue and Rama are brighter than all mortal splendour. None may imitate Rama’s resolve. Only he—and his lineage—can bring her back, untouched by despair or defeat.
Her hair, black and silken, cries for care. Seeing her suffering, Hanuman’s heart grew heavy. What storm shall rise in Rama’s breast when he beholds what has become of her? For she is part of his soul. This daughter of Janaka holds the endurance of the Earth itself. Her eyes are lotus petals, her grace divine.
But by time’s cruel hand, she has been taken from Rama’s light and thrust into the shadows of monstrous guardians. A withered lotus, torn from the warm wing of her ruddy companion.
Beneath the Ashoka tree, aglow with flowers and pale moonlight, her sorrow deepens. For every flower mocks her, every beam reminds her of what is lost.
Hanuman stood near, his mission now fulfilled in vision, yet not in word. For haste would ruin all. This was no place for recklessness. The fate of the simian world, of Rama himself, and of Sita’s soul, hung in balance.
He must act with cunning, patience, and purpose. His mind, like the wind, now gathered speed—not to rush, but to turn the wheels of fate with wisdom. Strategies must unfold, like sacred scrolls. Profound thoughts, noble tactics, refined steps—these shall lead to victory.
The son of Vayu prepared, firm in will. The next act must be flawless—for it would shape the world’s destiny. And thus, he watched her still, divine in sorrow, waiting for the tide of righteousness to return.