Hanumān, the mighty son of the wind, searched through the palaces and pleasure gardens of Laṅkā with tireless zeal. He beheld women of extraordinary beauty, unmatched in all the world—even those whose radiance surpassed that of the celestial nymphs. He saw graceful serpent maidens, their hips slender and faces shining like the full moon, yet nowhere did he find Rāma’s beloved, Sītā. Among those maidens, some had been seized by Rāvaṇa, the king of demons, taken by force. Still, Janaka’s cherished daughter was not among them. Despite witnessing so many noble women, Hanumān could not find her whom he sought. A deep despondency settled upon his heart. He began to see the tireless efforts of the monkey chiefs, and even his own crossing of the vast ocean, as fruitless. Sorrow weighed him down, and he withdrew from the mansion, descending quietly, overcome by grief and lost in thought. Now, in the Sundara Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, as the thirteenth sarga is recited, Hanumān’s journey continues. With the swiftness of lightning darting through a cloud, he leapt from the palace to the rampart. Having searched every corner of Rāvaṇa’s residences, he still did not see Sītā. Speaking to himself, Hanumān lamented, “I have searched all of Laṅkā for Rāma’s beloved, for Vaidehī, the jewel among women, yet she is nowhere to be seen. I have looked through lakes, ponds, pools, rivers, streams, marshy groves, and mountain strongholds—everywhere upon this earth. Sampāti, the king of vultures, told us that Sītā was here in Rāvaṇa’s residence. Why, then, can I not find her?” Doubt and dread began to gnaw at Hanumān’s heart. “Could it be,” he wondered, “that Sītā, Janaka’s noble daughter, helpless and taken by force, has perished? Perhaps, as the demon carried her off, frightened by Rāma’s arrows, she fell to the ground in terror. Or maybe, as she was borne through the sky along the path of the perfected beings, her heart failed her at the sight of the ocean and she fell. Perhaps, crushed by Rāvaṇa’s great strength, that noble, wide-eyed lady gave up her life. Or did she, struggling as she was carried over the sea, fall into the waters below? Could that cruel Rāvaṇa have devoured Sītā, the ascetic and virtuous lady, defenseless and alone? Or perhaps the dark-eyed wives of the lord of the rākṣasas, wicked in their intent, have destroyed her, though she was innocent.” Hanumān’s mind was tormented by these fearful thoughts. “Perhaps, crying out ‘O Rāma! O Lakṣmaṇa! O Ayodhyā!’ in her agony, Vaidehī, the daughter of Mithilā, abandoned her body. Or maybe she is still alive, confined somewhere in Rāvaṇa’s residence, lamenting her fate like a young mynah bird trapped in a cage. How could Sītā, born in Janaka’s noble line, slender-waisted and lotus-eyed, ever fall under Rāvaṇa’s power?” He pondered further, “Whether lost, destroyed, or dead, it is not right to report such a fate for Janaka’s daughter, Rāma’s beloved. If I tell this to Rāma, it will be a grave fault; if I do not, that too is a fault. What should I do now?” Thus, Hanumān considered carefully what course of action would be timely and right. He thought, “If I return to the city of the monkey king without having seen Sītā, what purpose will have been served? My crossing of the ocean, my entry into Laṅkā, and all that I have witnessed among the rākṣasas will have been in vain. What will Sugrīva say, or the assembled monkeys, or those two noble sons of Daśaratha, when I return to Kiṣkindhā?” Hanumān’s heart filled with dread at the consequences of failure. “If I go and speak harsh words to Kakutstha—if I say, ‘I have not seen Sītā’—then Rāma will give up his life. Hearing such cruel, piercing, and grievous words about Sītā, he will not survive. Seeing Rāma in such despair, wise and devoted Lakṣmaṇa, his mind overcome by sorrow, will also not survive. When Bharata hears that both his brothers are lost, he too will die; and seeing Bharata dead, Śatrughna will not survive. The mothers—Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and Kaikeyī—seeing their sons dead, will not endure. There is no doubt. “Sugrīva, the grateful and truthful lord of the monkeys, seeing Rāma’s suffering, will then give up his life. Rumā, Sugrīva’s wife, afflicted by her husband’s grief and overcome by sorrow, will abandon her life as well. Tara, already worn down by grief for Vāli and consumed by sorrow, will not survive either. Angada, the prince, faced with the loss of his parents and Sugrīva’s calamity, will also abandon his life. “The forest-dwelling monkeys, unable to bear the grief of losing their beloved lord, will strike their heads in anguish. Cherished by Sugrīva’s kindness, gifts, and honor, the monkeys will give up their lives in sorrow. The monkey chiefs, gathering together, will no longer take pleasure in play among the forests, mountains, or their retreats.” Thus, Hanumān, weighed down by the gravity of his mission and the possible consequences of failure, stood lost in deep contemplation, his heart torn between despair and duty.