Sugriva, with Rāma and Lakshmana beside him, waited in charged stillness for tidings that might bear the weight of destiny. At length, a band of vānaras descended before them, bowed with folded hands, and cried, “O Sugrīva, once Vāli’s charge and now yours—Madhuvana, the grove of honey, is thrown open and laid waste. Its richest stores of fruit and nectar have been consumed without restraint. Prince Aṅgada, Hanumān, and the others entered it freely; when we sought to restrain them, they struck us aside in wild exhilaration, leaping and soaring in intoxicated delight. Their joy overflows all bounds.”
Sugrīva pondered for a moment. “They have surely seen Sītā,” he said. “Without success, they would not dare defy a royal command. When a great task is accomplished, a troop takes its ease as nature allows.” With quiet certainty,y he conveyed his thought to Śrī Rāma.
Meanwhile, Hanumān and his companions had drunk deep of honey and fruit, reveling until the last drop of their gladness was spent, breathing the tender breeze perfumed by blossoms and sweet sap, the air shimmering with fragrance and the murmur of shining waters. Thereafte,r they departed from Madhuvana and hastened to Sugrīva, who stood with Rāma and Lakshmana. Beholding their radiant faces and kindled spirits, Rāma divined at once that Sita had been found.
Then the wise Hanuman bowed low and spoke with gentle humility. “Lord of Earth, Sri Rāma, I have seen Mother Sita. We ranged through forests, rivers, and oceans, searching the world’s compass until at last our path pointed south. Hear, O Raghava, what trials we endured before we found her, for our hearts find rest only when you know the measure of our journey.
“While searching each fragment of land, we came upon a cavern vast and hollowed beneath the earth, black as starless night and alive with fearsome beings. Pressing onward, we reached a city radiant as the sun. There dwelt a hermit-woman of divine mien who fed us kindly; guided by her words, we passed through the cavern’s far throat and emerged beyond the Sahya range, past the garlanded heights of Durdhara, to the far end of the Malaya mountains.
“There, the ocean unveiled itself. The waves rose like living walls between sky and sea; within them swam fish, crocodiles, and monstrous creatures circling in terrible play. The depth was unfathomable, the breadth without beginning or end. We scoured its shores and hidden inlets yet found no trace of Sita. No mortal could cross such a sea. We were exhausted, despairing, and thought it better to perish than return with empty words that might wound your spirit. We resolved to follow Jataayu in sacrifice and so earn merit.
“In that moment, a mighty bird, weeping, approached us. Hearing Jatāyu’s name, he asked who we were. I told him of your exile, of Ravana’s theft of Sita, and of Jataayu’s noble attempt to save her, ending in his death. The great bird, Samapti—elder brother of Jatāyu—lamented bitterly and said, ‘I know Ravana, proud and mighty through his boons. His citadel lies amid the encircling sea, the renowned city of Lanka. There dwells Sita.’
“Thus assured, our spirits lifted, yet none among us knew how to cross the boundless waters. Then, O King of Virtue, remembering your grace and the kindness of my father Vayu, strength surged within me. With that blessing, I launched myself across the roaring tides and the monstrous denizens of the deep, until at last I stood upon the far shore, breathless with wonder.
“There rose a triple-peaked mountain crowned with palaces of marvellous craft. Through that resplendent city I searched unceasingly, until I reached Aśoka-vāṭikā, beyond Rāvaṇa’s private chambers. There I beheld a woman frail from grief, with unbound hair and soiled garments, yet shining with an inner radiance like a ray of light glimmering through dust. Her sorrowing voice murmured your name, O Son of Raghu. Thus, I found Vaidehī.
“I approached her reverently and said, ‘O Daughter of Janaka, I am Hanuman, the son of Vayu and a servant of Sri Rāma. He and Lakshmana are safe. They are allied with King Sugrīva, who has sworn to aid them, and your lord will come soon. Take heart.’ She doubted me at first, fearing a rakshasa in guise, but I reassured her, and remembering the prophecy of the aged demoness who foretold Sugriva’s friendship with you, she recognized the truth of my words. She gave me this token and recalled the tale of the crow at Citrakūṭa.”
When Hanumān placed Sītā’s token in Rāma’s hand, it was as though her unseen touch stirred his heart.
Thus, Hanumān told of Sītā’s plight, and Sugrīva, hearing all, summoned his entire host to march against Laṅkā. Messengers sped in every direction to gather the vānaras of Kiṣkindhā. Mighty warriors assembled—Gaja and Gavaya eager for battle, Kumuda leading countless ranks. The earth trembled beneath their tread, and the sky rang with shouts of “Victory to Śrī Rāma! Triumph to Sugriva!”
The sage Markandeya later recounted Rāma’s trials with clear and piercing insight. And Hanuman, the voice of the southern search-party, wisely withheld the darker details of their delay and the cavern’s mysteries, speaking only what was fitting.
His tale—of the sea crossed, Sita discovered, and Lanka set aflame—stands as a timeless lesson in courage, fidelity, and the noble duties of envoys and emissaries for all ages to come.
