The son of Vayu, satisfied with the outcome of his tireless efforts to gain Sita’s grace, stood in quiet reverence. Though his primary duty was fulfilled, a greater task loomed—one that would bring the demon realm under Ravana’s command face to face with the simian world, now bound by Rama’s will—a confrontation destined to yield a lasting deliverance for the daughter of Janaka.
Hanuman, radiant with brilliance and humility, addressed Sita with folded hands:
“O bearer of unmatched virtue, guardian of chastity’s shield, divine pulse of Rama!
Accept, I pray, this signet-ring sent by your beloved. It is a sacred token from Rama himself, meant to draw you into the majestic realm of memory and to awaken the joy etched in your soul. Let it lift the weight of fear and sorrow. Long live Sita!”
At the very sight of the ring, Sita was overwhelmed with the joy of reunion—her heart drawn into the loving assurance of Rama’s promise to liberate her from demonic captivity.
She gazed upon Hanuman with heartfelt gratitude and exclaimed:
“O son of Vayu, your bravery is unparalleled!
Your capabilities outshine all others. Bold and wise, you dared to cross the dread dominion of demons alone. Your noble leap over the vast, perilous ocean, teeming with crocodiles and serpents, was like the pious stride of a cow.
O, simian warrior! Fear has not touched you, not even before Ravana or his horde of dreadful demons. You hesitate not in the face of danger. Your qualities are exemplary. As Rama’s envoy, you possess the right to speak with freedom and clarity.
Rama, who knows your virtues well, would never send one unworthy. That righteous king, truthful and just, is protected by divine grace, as is Lakshmana, the joy of Sumitra.
Yet tell me, why has Rama not reduced Lanka to ashes? I know him blameless—he, who can restrain fate and contend with gods. But perhaps I am destined to endure this sorrow.
Is Rama not consumed by despair? Has sorrow dulled his spirit? Or is he rallying strength to crush the enemy? Is his resolve intact?
Is Rama free from illusion? Has he emerged from moments of weakness? Is his strategy fail-proof? Does he gather all that is needed? Is he weaving alliances for this sacred cause?
Does he still conduct the rituals that uphold his divine duty? Is his affection for me still burning with warmth? How shall he free me from this cruel prison?
Once Rama dwelled in royal splendor—how now does he survive in the forests and mountains? What of Kausalya, Sumitra, Bharata, and Shatrughna? Are they well? Does Rama remain fixed in duty?
Will Bharata rise with his mighty army to aid in the war? Will the valor and strategy of Sugriva support Rama in this coming crisis?
Will Lakshmana—the warrior prince, the joy of Sumitra, and beacon of loyalty—tear through these vile demons? Shall I witness the fall of Ravana’s pride, the end of his immoral reign?
Is Rama’s inspiring and confident face unchanged? Or has it withered like a lotus torn from its lake?
Even while walking the forests barefoot in ascetic robes, abiding by his father’s command, has Rama preserved his composure? Does his spirit endure?
Rama, who treasures bonds of friendship above even ties of blood—mother, father, or brothers—I rejoice to hear of him,” she said, and fell into silent reflection.
Then Hanuman, the valiant and humble one, bowed deeply and replied:
“O Devi, Rama knows not your whereabouts.
That is the only reason he has not yet come to rescue you, as Indra once did for Sachidevi. Once he hears your fate from me, he will descend upon Lanka with an army of vanaras and bears.
With his divine arrows, he shall calm the raging ocean and reach Lanka’s heart. He shall crush the demon host and restore you with honor and dignity.
Truly, Rama is like a mighty elephant, tormented by the absence of his beloved lioness—you.
I swear upon the sacred mountains—Malaya, Mandara, and Dardura—and on our humble food: fruits, roots, pods, and tubers—you shall soon behold Rama’s face, radiant and divine.
You shall see him seated upon Mount Prasravana, like Lord Indra upon Airavata. Rama lives on fruits and roots, forsaking ornaments and adornments. He resembles a sage, bow in hand, mind unwavering.
He sleeps not deeply, constantly whispering your name: ‘Sita… Sita…’
Every object, every breeze, that reminds him of you, stirs his soul and draws him away from all else.
O Sita, Rama—the prince of virtue—is ever immersed in your memory, love, and sorrow.
His grief is no less than yours.”
Upon hearing news of Rama and Lakshmana’s well-being, Sita’s sorrow waned. Hope glimmered in her heart—she appeared like the full moon, partly veiled by clouds.
