With her hair unbound and tears streaming, Sītā cries out the names of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa; this, dear one, is the time that has passed, as spoken by those most skilled in words. Supārśva informed me fully of these events, yet even after hearing them, I found myself unable to act. For how can a bird without wings undertake any deed? Yet, guided by speech and wisdom, I will do what I can. Now, listen to what I will say, relying on your valor. With words and intelligence, I shall act in a way that pleases you all. Indeed, whatever task belongs to Rāma is surely mine as well—of this there is no doubt. You are all wise, strong, and resolute. Sent by the king of monkeys, you are formidable even to the gods, and the arrows of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, feathered with eagle plumes, are ready. These arrows are powerful enough to restrain the weapons of all three worlds. Surely, the ten-headed Rāvaṇa possesses great energy and strength, yet for you—capable as you are—nothing is too difficult. Therefore, let us end this delay and make a firm decision, for the wise do not linger when action is needed. Now begins the sixty-first chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa. After performing the water-rite and bathing, the monkey chiefs gathered around Sampāti, the noble vulture, on the lovely mountain, surrounding him on all sides. Sampāti, filled with joy and confidence, spoke again as Angada sat there, encircled by all the monkeys. “Let the monkeys, silent and attentive, listen to me. I will recount the truth as I know it about Maithilī, Sītā. Long ago, O sinless one, I fell upon the peak of this Vindhya mountain. My body was afflicted by the sun’s heat, scorched by its rays. After six nights, I regained consciousness—weak and disoriented, I looked in all directions but could not recognize anything. Then, as I observed the oceans, mountains, rivers, lakes, forests, and regions, my understanding returned. This is certainly the Vindhya, full of peaks and caves, crowded with joyful flocks of birds, on the southern shore of the ocean. Here, there was a sacred hermitage, greatly revered even by the gods, where the sage Nishakara practiced severe austerities. For eight thousand years, that sage dwelled on this mountain. After the righteous Nishakara ascended to heaven, I descended with difficulty from the summit of Vindhya—slowly and through hardship, returning with pain to the earth covered in sharp darbha grass. Desiring to see the sage, I came here, greatly troubled; both Jatayu and I often approached him. Near his hermitage, fragrant winds blew; every tree was adorned with flowers and fruit. Approaching the sacred hermitage, I took shelter at the root of a tree, waiting and wishing to see the venerable Nishakara. Then I saw the sage from afar, blazing with splendor, having completed his ablutions, formidable, and facing north as he returned. Bears, hyenas, tigers, lions, and various reptiles surrounded him as he approached, like living beings gathering around a giver of life. Recognizing the sage had arrived, those creatures departed, just as all the troops and ministers withdraw when the king enters. The sage, seeing me, was pleased and re-entered the hermitage. After a brief moment, he came out and asked my purpose. ‘Gentle one, seeing the condition of your feathers, it is clear: both your wings are scorched by fire, and even your life-breaths remain with difficulty. I have seen two vultures before, swift as the wind, kings among vultures, brothers, able to assume any form at will. You are the elder, Sampāti, and Jatayu is your younger brother. Assume human form, come and take hold of my feet. What is the cause of your illness? How did your wings fall? Who has inflicted this punishment? Tell me everything as I ask.’ Now, hear the sixty-first chapter in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. That dreadful and difficult deed was swiftly accomplished; I recounted everything to the sage, including the pursuit of the sun. ‘O venerable one, wounded and ashamed, my senses disturbed and exhausted, I am unable to speak clearly. Both Jatayu and I, overcome by pride and rivalry, leapt into the sky from afar, eager to test our strength. On the summit of Mount Kailāsa, in the presence of sages, we made a wager: to follow the sun until it reached the great mountain at sunset. As we traveled together, we saw many cities below, each the size of a chariot wheel, distinct from one another. In some places, we heard the sound of musical instruments; elsewhere, the jingling of ornaments; we saw many women dressed in red, singing. Swiftly rising into the sky, we reached the sun’s path; from there, we looked down upon the forest, lush with green meadows. The earth appeared covered with rocky peaks, as if with stones, and was encircled by rivers, like threads woven around the land. The Himālaya, Vindhya, and the great Meru mountains shone forth on the earth, like mighty serpents in a pool of water.