Amidst the swiftness of consciousness, the tempestuous nature of the monkey in Hanuman was subdued by intellect and wisdom. A fleeting thought arose—how could the chaste scion of virtue, Janaka’s daughter, repose in ease amidst the enemy’s harem, adorned with embellishments? Her very breath was Rama, whose pulse was her own. How could she dilute the grand lineage of Mithila, the wisdom and values of the Ikshvaku dynasty? How could she rest in opulent slumber, bejeweled, in the absence of her very essence—her life, her light, her spirit, her heartbeat—Rama, who was her past, her present, and her future?
For a moment, my mind wavered, entangled in delusion, lured into a fleeting joy. But how could joy take root in the absence of the divine pulse that animates the universe? Surely, this majestic woman could not be Sita. Resolute, Hanuman pressed on, scrutinizing every detail with unyielding focus.
He ventured into a vast hall, dimly lit yet splendidly adorned, where the air was thick with the intoxicating fragrance of honey, fruit juices, and floral essences. Within, women lay scattered, exhausted, their slumber heavy with the stupor of indulgence, murmuring incoherent words—the residue of strain and toil. Their presence hinted at a role in the palace’s vast kitchens and grand feasts. Further ahead, he discerned another cluster—women huddled together, anxiety etched in their forms. These, he mused, must be the caretakers of the royal gardens, devoted to the nurture of flora and fauna. Marking their presence for later inquiry, he pressed on.
Deeper within, he encountered yet another assembly—those attuned to song, dance, and the ever-shifting moods of the harem. Their murmurs were of idle conversation, their presence entwined with the service of royal women. This ground had already been covered—no further pursuit was needed among these honest attendants.
Yet, even amidst his relentless search, Hanuman could not help but marvel at the refinement of demon governance. The opulence of the palace, the equal comforts afforded to its denizens, and the participative order bespoke a kingdom where even the laboring class partook in the grandeur of its rule. Here, hierarchy did not mar the beauty of organization; each role had its due place, and each worker their share of dignity.
He arrived at the great kitchens, where culinary mastery unfolded before him. Finely treated meats and delicate delicacies were prepared with meticulous care. Enormous copper cauldrons held curds mixed with rock salt, their contents simmered with precision over flames of varied intensities—some gentle, some fierce—to preserve their essence. The sophistication of these preparations shattered the crude belief that demons feasted upon raw flesh; instead, he beheld a world that cherished food with devotion, reverence, and artistry. Fruits of myriad hues—grapes of violet, amber, and emerald—rested upon plates of gold and silver. No seat was lesser than another, no table bore marks of division; grandeur reigned in symmetry.
The aroma, rich and potent, stirred hunger even in those satiated, such was the seduction of the demon king’s feasts. Yet Hanuman’s purpose was singular—to find some clue, a whisper of Sita’s presence amidst the lavish abundance.
Moving beyond the kitchens, he reached a meadow strewn with shattered vessels of exquisite make. Perhaps revelry had led to drunken revels, to revelers clashing in mirth, leaving behind a heap of broken goblets that once brimmed with fruit wines and honeyed spirits.
Pressing forward, he discovered an opulent dais, richly carpeted, its plush surface strewn with tanned skins. Women lay in deep slumber, their repose one of peace and security, some grasping at silken drapes, shielding themselves in the comfort of fabric. Their forms bore the marks of warriors, the ruggedness of those who gathered the forest’s bounty for the palace. Hanuman mused that these guardians of nature might prove valuable in a world reshaped after the fall of the demon clan—Sugreeva, a just king, would not harm the innocent nor disregard the righteous.
In the sanctum of pious women, he found vessels of sandalwood, turmeric, vermilion, and sacred red sandal, symbols of ascetic devotion. Here were those who upheld the spiritual sanctity of the regal household. Yet Hanuman dismissed this path, for what need had Janaki of ascetic counsel? She was virtue incarnate, her sanctity beyond ritualistic practice. No further search was warranted here.
A shadow of doubt crossed his mind. Was it virtuous to peer into the private chambers of unknown women? To observe them in their most unguarded state, to analyze their bearing, their movement? Did this transgress the laws of righteousness, the decrees of Manusmriti? He paused in prayer to Vayu, seeking wisdom. And as though in divine response, clarity dawned—his search was not driven by indulgence, nor tainted by desire. His pursuit was pure, bound by duty alone. Not a moment had he wavered; every act, every glance, was a step toward his sacred mission.
Reason dictated his course—Sita, the embodiment of chastity, the very soul of virtue, could only be found among women. A lost cow is sought among its herd, a missing deer among its kind, a bird within its flock. Thus, his search followed the ordained path, untouched by impurity. Yet she was nowhere to be found.
With unwavering resolve, Hanuman continued, traversing halls adorned with celestial beauty, where Yakshas, Nagas, and Kinnara women dwelled in regal splendor. Yet Sita remained absent. He retraced his steps, contemplating his next move.
At last, he arrived at a singular chamber, resplendent yet shrouded in secrecy. It held within it mysteries yet to be unveiled. Every moment was a step toward revelation, every action a testament to devotion, intellect, and unshaken faith. Hanuman’s journey was more than a search—it was the unfolding of destiny, a path etched in time, destined to serve as a beacon for seekers of truth across ages.
