Behold, in the sacred groves of golden Lanka, where shadows danced under demon guard, the mighty Hanuman, son of the Wind and master of silence, kept vigil with unwavering gaze. He saw, and seeing, knew. The storm of Ravana’s fury passed like thunder through the air, while the she-demons, grim daughters of night, circled the noble Sita, whose sorrow sang like a broken veena. He listened also to Trijata’s dream, fateful as a whisper from the lips of destiny.
Like the Himalaya firm in resolve, Hanuman remained still, awaiting the hour ordained. Upon Sita did his eyes rest—Sita, radiant though sorrow-struck, like the moon shrouded by Rahu’s shadow. And inwardly he spoke, “Among all vanaras that roam sky and land, to me is granted this darshan—this sacred sight of her.”
He pondered deep upon Lanka’s splendour, flashing like Amaravati of the gods, and the might of Ravana, that peerless tyrant whose pride rivalled ancient Titans. Yet caution held him fast—for he had seen the arms of rakshasas, and weighed well the doom that a single misstep might stir.
But beyond all else he beheld her—Janaka’s daughter, peerless in pain, her every breath a prayer to Rama, her voice choked in longing, her brow bent beneath the weight of grief no queen should bear. To return without a word, to vanish like a shadow—nay, it would be to scorn the very cause of his leap across the boundless sea.
He knew: her fire of despair must not be left to burn unchecked. Rama waited in anguish, bound by love more potent than fate. “If I return in silence,” thought Hanuman, “her sorrow may eclipse hope itself. Yet to speak aloud while demons lurk—ruin shall leap forth like a viper.”
And so within him warred courage and caution. “How shall I reach her heart?” he mused. “Shall I speak in Sanskrit, the tongue of sages? Would she not tremble, fearing Ravana in disguise? Would she not shrink from a monkey’s voice veiled in learned speech?”
A cry, a gasp, and the watchers would strike—the demon horde would rise, the sky would fill with spears, and I, lone in Lanka’s grasp, could deliver no word, no solace. Worse still, her very life might flicker out, undone by my rashness.
This was not a time for valor loud nor glory bold. This was the hour of restraint, the minute of the measured word, when a whisper held more might than a roar.
Thus, in the hush of leafy boughs, Hanuman resolved: “Let her first hear the name she clutches in her soul—let the sound of Rama be the key that unlocks her trust.” And hidden within the shadows of the simsapa, he let fall his voice, low as a prayer, clear as the bell of dawn:
“In the ancient race of Ikshvaku, where kings ruled like dharma made flesh, there reigned Dasharatha, matchless in arms and wisdom. To him was born Rama, lion among men, firm in virtue, peerless in truth, who obeyed the summons of exile and trod the forest paths in silence, with his beloved Sita and his steadfast brother Lakshmana.
In Dandaka’s wilds, he slew demons to guard the righteous. Yet fate, cruel in guise, stole Sita away by the hand of Ravana, lord of sin and splendour. Stricken with grief, Rama made pact with Sugreeva, king of vanaras, and slew Vali the mighty. Then, from Kishkindha’s heights, he sent forth his legions to the ends of the earth.
I am Hanuman, son of the Wind, envoy of Sugreeva, servant of Rama. Guided by the wingéd wisdom of Sampati, I crossed the ocean vast, and lo—I find thee, O Sita, just as Rama dreamed, face bright as the moon, soul marked by love.”
Thus, he spoke, and silence held its breath.
Then Sita, though worn by sorrow and thinned by despair, lifted her gaze like a lotus seeking the sun. From the green veils of the tree, she heard the song of her lord’s glory, and in that sacred sound, despair found pause.
There he stood, the vanara divine—small of form, yet vast of heart. In him shone courage without recklessness, wisdom without pride. The gods themselves had chosen well—for here was a messenger fit to change the tide of fate.
And so the tale turned—on a word, a whisper, a wind-borne voice in the hush of demon-haunted groves. The great wheel of destiny stirred, and all creation leaned to listen.
