Hanuman, filled with anxious determination, searched everywhere for Sita—across lakes, ponds, pools, rivers, streams, marshy groves, and even the strongholds atop mountains. Every part of the earth seemed to have been scoured, yet nowhere did he find Jānakī. He remembered how Sampāti, the king of vultures, had said that Sita was held in Rāvaṇa’s residence. But here in Lanka, she was nowhere to be seen. Why was that? A heavy worry pressed upon Hanuman’s heart. Could it be, he wondered, that Sita, Vaidehī—the noble daughter of Janaka—helpless and seized by Rāvaṇa’s force, had perished? Perhaps, as the demon carried her away, frightened by Rāma’s deadly arrows, she had slipped from his grasp and fallen to the ground below. Or maybe, as she was borne along the path traversed by celestial beings, the noble lady saw the vast ocean beneath her, and her heart failed; perhaps she fell then. It could be, Hanuman thought, that crushed in Rāvaṇa’s powerful arms, the wide-eyed and noble Sita had surrendered her life. He imagined, too, that as she was carried high over the ocean, struggling, the daughter of Janaka may have fallen into the sea. Or, in his darkest thought, Hanuman wondered if Rāvaṇa, that wicked creature, had devoured Sita—the ascetic lady who strove to protect her virtue, though she had no protector in that moment. Perhaps it was not Rāvaṇa, but his dark-eyed wives, evil in intent, who had consumed the innocent Sita. Hanuman pictured Sita crying out in anguish, “O Rāma! O Lakṣmaṇa! O Ayodhyā!”—and in her despair, perhaps she had abandoned her body. Or maybe she was still alive, confined somewhere in Rāvaṇa’s residence, lamenting deeply like a young mynah bird trapped in a cage. He could not understand how the slender-waisted wife of Rāma, born in Janaka’s noble line, with her lotus-petal eyes, could have fallen under Rāvaṇa’s power. Yet, whether Sita was lost, destroyed, or dead, Hanuman knew it was not right to bring such news. If he reported it, it would be a grave fault; if he kept silent, that too would be a fault. What should he do? This troubling dilemma weighed heavily on him. Hanuman paused and considered carefully what would be timely and appropriate now. If he returned to the city of the monkey king without seeing Sita, what purpose would his journey have served? His heroic leap across the ocean, his entry into Lanka, and his sight of the rakshasas would all have been in vain. He worried what Sugrīva, the assembled monkeys, and the two sons of Daśaratha would say when he returned to Kiṣkindhā. If he spoke harshly to Kakutstha—Rāma—saying, “I have not seen Sita,” Rāma would surely give up his life. Hearing such cruel, piercing, and grievous words about Sita, Rāma would not survive. Seeing Rāma in such distress, his mind overcome by death, the devoted and wise Lakṣmaṇa too would not survive. And, upon hearing that both his brothers were lost, Bharata would die; seeing Bharata dead, Śatrughna would not survive either. The mothers—Kausalyā, Sumitrā, and Kaikeyī—seeing all their sons dead, would not survive; Hanuman had no doubt of this. Sugrīva, the grateful and truthful lord of the monkeys, seeing Rāma in such a state, would then give up his own life. Rumā, afflicted by her husband’s grief, distressed and joyless, devoted to austerity, would also abandon her life. Tāra, the queen, already worn down by sorrow for Vāli, would not survive either. With the loss of his parents and Sugrīva’s calamity, the prince Aṅgada too would abandon his life. The forest-dwelling monkeys, overcome by grief for their lord, would strike their heads with their palms and fists. Cherished by their glorious king with kindness, gifts, and honor, the monkeys would give up their lives. The monkey chiefs would gather together, no longer finding joy in the forests, on the mountains, or in their retreats. Distressed by their lord’s calamity, with their sons, wives, and ministers, they would throw themselves from mountain peaks, on level ground, and in rough places. Some would resort to poison, hanging, entering fire, fasting, or weapons. Hanuman foresaw terrible weeping upon his return, the destruction of the Ikṣvāku line, and the ruin of the forest-dwellers. Therefore, he resolved, he would not return to Kiṣkindhā; he could not bear to see Sugrīva without Maithilī. If he did not return, those two righteous and mighty warriors—Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—would wait in hope, as would the swift vanaras. As for himself, Hanuman thought, he would take food by hand or mouth, living on roots and fruits, and become a forest-dweller, since he had not found Janaka’s daughter. He resolved that, in a land by the ocean, rich in roots, fruits, and water, he would build a pyre and enter the blazing fire kindled by arani wood. Or, sitting in meditation, intent on ascetic practice, he would allow crows and wild beasts to devour his body. Such a departure, he recalled, had also been the way of sages. So his mind was set: if he did not find Janakī, he would enter the waters. Thus, Hanuman mourned that Sita, so excellent, blessed, and garlanded with fame and glory, for whom he searched, would be lost to him for a long time.