Hanumān Spots Sīta in the Aśoka Grove
An Excerpt from the Sundarakāṇḍa
Perched in that golden śiṃśapā tree, Hanumān gazed all around him searching for Maithili. He looked down to the ground and surveyed the entire grove.
It had lovely trees full of fruit that blossomed all year round. With the splendor of its blossoming aśoka trees, it had the radiance of the sunrise.
To Maruti, perching there, it looked as though it were ablaze. The branches of its trees looked as if they were being constantly stripped of their leaves by the hundreds of colorful birds, garlanded with flowers, that flew up from them.
By virtue of its trees — aśokas that drive away sorrow, so dense with blossoms down to their roots that they seemed to touch the ground from their weight, and its blossoming karṇikāras, and fully blooming kiṃśukas — that spot seemed as if ablaze with radiance on every side.
Not far off in the aśoka grove, the bull among monkeys spied a lofty domed palace.
White as Mount Kailāsa, it stood surrounded by a thousand pillars. It had stairways worked in coral and railings of burnished gold.
It seemed to steal away one’s eyes, for it appeared to be ablaze with splendor. Pure white, it stood so tall it seemed to scrape the sky.
Then he saw a woman clad in a soiled garment and surrounded by rākṣasa women. She was gaunt with fasting. She was dejected and she sighed repeatedly. She looked like the shining sliver of the waxing moon.
Her radiance was lovely; but with her beauty now only faintly discernible, she resembled a flame of fire occluded by thick smoke.
She was clad in a single, fine yellow garment, now much worn. Covered with dirt and lacking ornaments, she resembled a pond without lotuses.
Ashamed, tormented by grief, disconsolate, and suffering, she looked like the constellation Rohiṇi occluded by the planet Mars.
She was dejected, her face covered with tears. She was emaciated through fasting. She was depressed, given over to sorrow.
Brooding constantly, she was consumed with her grief.
No longer seeing the people dear to her but only the hosts of rākṣasa women, she was like a doe cut off from her herd and surrounded by a pack of hounds.
She had a single braid-like a black serpent-falling down her back. Deserving only happiness and unaccustomed to calamity, she was consumed with sorrow.
Closely examining that wide-eyed woman-so dirty and emaciated- he reasoned from these indicative signs, “She must be Sīta! This woman looks exactly like the one I saw earlier being carried off by that rākṣasa, who can take on any form at will.”
Sīta’s face was like the full moon; her eyebrows were beautiful; her breasts were lovely and full. With her radiance that lady banished the darkness from all directions.
Her hair was jet black; her lips like bimba fruit. Her waist was lovely, and her posture was perfect. Her eyes were like lotus petals, and she looked like Rati, wife of Manmatha, god of love.
That lovely woman-as cherished by all living things as the radiance of the full moon-was seated on the ground like an ascetic woman practicing austerity.
Sighing constantly, that timorous woman resembled a daughter-in-law of a serpent lord. By virtue of the vast net of sorrow spread over her, her radiance was dimmed like that of a flame of fire obscured by a shroud of smoke. She was like a blurred memory or a fortune lost.
She was like faith lost or hope dashed, like success undermined by catastrophe or intellect dulled.
She was like a reputation lost through false rumors. She was distraught at being prevented from rejoining Rāma and anguished by her abduction by the rākṣasa.
That delicate, fawn-eyed woman was looking about here and there. Her sorrowful face with its black-tipped eyelashes was covered with a flood of tears. She sighed again and again.
Dejected, covered with dirt and grime, and devoid of ornaments- though she was worthy of them-she resembled the light of the moon, the king of stars, obscured by a black storm cloud.
Still, after closely examining the wide-eyed, blameless princess, he concluded that this was indeed Sīta, confirming his judgment through the telltale signs.
Then he noticed on Vaidehi’s body-beautifying her limbs the mass of jewelry that Rāma had described.
“Though blackened with long use, her beautifully formed earrings, her finely crafted ‘dog’s teeth,’ and the handsome jewelry on her hands, variegated with gemstones and coral, are all in their proper places. I think they must be the very ones that Rāma described.”
“This must be Rāma’s beloved golden-hued queen, who, though she is lost to him, has not departed from his heart.”
“This must be she on whose account Rāma has suffered fourfold misery: because of his compassion, because of his kindness, because of his grief, because of his love.”
“His compassion has been aroused by the thought that a woman has been lost, his kindness by the thought that a supplicant has perished, his grief because his wife is gone, and his love because his beloved has been taken from him.”
“The beauty of this black-eyed lady and the perfection of her every limb are just like Rāma’s. She must therefore belong to him.”
“This lady’s thoughts are firmly fixed on him and his on her. It is for this reason alone that she and that righteous man have been able to survive even for a moment.
“Great-armed Rama has accomplished the impossible in managing to survive even for a moment without this intoxicating lady, Sīta.”
Having discovered Sīta in this fashion, the son of Pavana the wind god, in great delight, fixed his thoughts on Lord Rāma and praised him.
Gazing at her, who was young and golden and as beloved by all people as Śri, the goddess of fortune, his thoughts went back to Rāma, and he said these words:
“It was for the sake of this wide-eyed lady that mighty Vālin was struck down and Kabandha, Rāvaṇa’s equal in might, was slain.
“And it was for her sake that Virādha, that rākṣasa of fearsome valor, was attacked and killed in battle by Rāma in the forest, just as was Śambara by great Indra.
“It was for her sake as well that fourteen thousand rākṣasas of dreadful deeds were slaughtered in Janasthāna with arrows like tongues of flame.
“It was for her sake that Khara was killed in battle, Triśiras was slain, and mighty Dūṣaṇa destroyed by celebrated Rāma.
“The lordship of the monkeys, so difficult to obtain and so highly esteemed throughout the world, had been in the keeping of Vālin. It was because of her that Sugrīva acquired it.
“And it was also for the sake of this wide-eyed lady that I leapt across the majestic ocean, lord of rivers and streams, and searched this city.
“If Rāma were to turn all the land stretching to the sea upside down for her sake, or even the universe itself, it would, in my opinion, be well justified.
“If one had to decide the relative worth of the kingship over the three worlds on the one hand and Janaka’s daughter on the other, the undivided kingship of the three worlds would not be worth one-sixteenth of Sīta.”
“For she is Sita, daughter of the great and righteous King Janaka Maithila, unwavering in her devotion to her lord.”
“Splitting open the earth, she arose from the land as it was cut by the ploughshare. She was covered with the auspicious soil of the field-resembling lotus pollen.
“She is the glorious eldest daughter-in-law of King Dasaratha, who was valorous and noble and never retreated in battle.
“She is the beloved wife of the skilful and celebrated Rāma, who knows what is right. But she has now fallen into the hands of the rākṣasa women.
Abjuring all pleasures, driven only by the power of her love for her husband, she entered the desolate wilderness with no care for its hardships.
“Satisfied with a diet of fruits and roots, devoted to her husband’s service, she experiences the greatest delight whether in the wilderness or in a palace.”
“Rāghava is yearning to see that virtuous lady who has been tormented by Rāvaṇa, as a thirsty man yearns to find a well.
“Stripped of her beauty like a lotus pond smitten by frost, oppressed by one calamity after another, the daughter of Janaka has been reduced to a pitiable state, like a female cakravāka bird separated from her mate.
These aśoka trees, their branches bent down under the weight of their blossoms, only intensify her sorrow and so does the thousand-rayed moon with its gentle beams, now rising at the onset of spring.
Then the bright moon, resembling a mass of white lotuses, rose into the clear sky, like a haṃsa plunging into blue water.
Excerpt taken from Vālmīki. The Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki: An Epic of Ancient India, Volume V: Sundarakāṇḍa. United States: Princeton University Press, 2016.
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