As the son of Vayu, that mighty Vanara, began his sacred recital of the hallowed line of Ikshvāku and the immeasurable glory of Sri Rama, the very air within the Ashoka grove seemed to shift its breath—earth and sky, leaf and bloom, all stirred with unseen wonder.
Then did the noble daughter of Janaka, she who shone with sorrow’s grace, lift her gaze. Amidst the thick entwining of Śiṁśapā branches and trembling foliage, she beheld a play of golden gleam—rays tender as morning’s first blush, like strings of living flame weaving through the canopy.
Startled was she, for rare was the vision: a monkey radiant as molten gold, eyes aglow with the lustre of flowing metal, seated among full-bloomed blossoms, speaking in a tongue soft, sweet, and graced with gentleness. The brilliance of that form—unreachable, impenetrable, unearthly—sent subtle tremors through her frame. She knew not if vision or illusion danced before her.
Hanumān, son of the wind, appeared to her not as beast nor God, but as both and neither—a creature of flesh bearing the wisdom of sages. At his sight and speech, memory surged like a wave: thoughts of Rāma, of Lakshmana, of days wrapped in dharma and nights lit by longing.
With wonder that bordered disbelief, Sita whispered, “Is this but a dream? Yet sleep eludes me in sorrow’s grip. In Rāma’s absence, where lies rest for me?” Her voice trembled like the leaves in the wind, her heart a sea of yearning.
“I chant his name. I dream of him awake. The very air around me resounds with his tale. Each leaf echoes his virtue; each wind whispers his name. And now before me stands this golden form, speaking the tongue of men—can thoughts take shape? Can devotion call flesh from spirit?”
She prayed then to Brahma, the Creator, to Brhaspati, the Embodiment of Wisdom, and to Agni, the Purifier: “Let this vision bear truth; let this message not be a mirage.”
Then, with folded hands and voice like the hush of sacred chants, Hanuman spoke:
“O gracious one, with eyes like lotus-petals heavy with dew, clad in yellow like the morning sun, standing beneath the sacred tree, I ask—who art thou?
Your tears fall like pearls from heaven’s blossoms. What sorrow has so clothed you in such tender grief?
Art thou of the devas, or from the noble clans of Yakṣas, Nāgas, Gandharvas, or Kinnaras? Perchance a daughter of the Maruts or of Rudra’s line? You shine like Rohiṇī apart from her Chandra—celestial, distant, luminous.
Yet something more profound clings to your countenance—like Arundhatī beside Vasishṭha, firm in dharma. Though divine you seem, your grief is of this world. Your bearing, your form, your gestures—they speak not of celestial freedom but of noble birth and lost splendour.”
He gazed deeper and declared, “By ancient science—by physiognomy, by signs upon your limbs and lines upon your hand—I declare: thou art daughter to a mighty king, consort to another, and cherished jewel of a royal house.
O virtuous lady, are you not she whom the ten-headed Ravana stole from Janasthāna by deceit? The light of compassion upon you, the strength of stillness in your gaze, all proclaim you the soul-bonded wife of Śrī Rāma, the Upholder of Dharma.”
Hearing these words, truest as the Vedas, Sītā’s sorrow paused. From within the veil of leaves, her voice emerged, gentle and solemn:
“O noble Vanara, thou speakest truth. I am she—Sita, daughter of Janaka, wife to Rāma, daughter-in-law to Dasharatha, king among men, compassionate to friends, terror to foes.
In Rāma’s palace I dwelt, honoured, beloved, wrapped in the dignity of wifely grace. When the thirteenth year of his exile dawned, Dasharatha resolved to anoint him heir. All was prepared, blessed by Vasistha and affirmed by council.
But Kaskeyi, driven by old boons, uttered her vow: ‘Until Rāma is banished, I take neither food nor drink.’ The king, torn by dharma and love, collapsed in despair.
Yet Rāma, knower of righteousness, accepted fate as divine command. He who gives freely, yet accepts nothing in return, donned the bark of sages, surrendered all wealth and comforts, and entrusted me to the care of Queen Kausalya.
But how could I remain behind when my soul walked in his shadow? I chose exile, with Lakshmana, ever faithful, joining our sacred journey. Thus, we entered the forest, following Dharma’s path, in simple clothes and noble vow.
But Ravana, foul of heart, stole me by deceit. He granted a two-month span for me to yield. That time now wanes… and with it, my will.”
And so, she fell silent.
Yet from that moment forward, the Ashoka grove transformed: fear turned to courage, doubt to faith, despair to hope. The veils of grief lifted with the breeze of resolve.
There in that sacred meeting, the beauty of devotion battled the vulgarity of evil’s design; the strategy of love, the patience of truth, and the fire of dharma began their work.
And so, the tale flowed—like the Ganga from heaven—pure, mighty, destined.
