Hanumān entered a wondrous garden, filled with the lively calls of herds of deer and flocks of birds. The air was saturated with many auspicious fragrances, enchanting and delightful to the senses. Not far off, his gaze fell upon a magnificent sanctuary tower, rising at the garden’s heart. It stood upon a thousand pillars, shining white as Mount Kailāsa, and radiated a dazzling splendor. Coral stairs led up to a platform fashioned from refined gold, so brilliant it dazzled the eyes. The sanctuary was spotless and lofty, seeming almost to touch the sky. There, Hanumān beheld her—Sītā—clad in soiled garments and surrounded by fierce rākṣasī women. She was emaciated from fasting, her spirit weighed down, sighing again and again. Yet, even in her sorrow, she shone with a pure beauty, like the crescent moon at the start of the bright fortnight. Her radiance was subdued, her beauty veiled as if by a shroud of smoke, like a flame obscured by haze. She wore only a single, yellow, soiled garment, fine but stained, and was without any ornaments, appearing like a lotus stalk bereft of its bloom. Afflicted and worn down by suffering, she was devoted to austerity, scorched by sorrow, as if Rohiṇī herself were tormented by the planet Mars. Her face was streaked with tears, her body emaciated from fasting. She sat absorbed in grief and meditation, forlorn and ever immersed in sorrow. Deprived of her beloved companions and encircled by a host of rākṣasīs, she seemed like a gentle doe separated from her herd and surrounded by a pack of hounds. A single dark braid marked her hip, resembling the parched earth of a forest kingdom in the dry season, streaked by a river after the clouds have departed. She, who was meant for happiness, was scorched by grief, unskilled in misfortune. Hanumān gazed upon her—broad-eyed, now more emaciated and unkempt than before—and reasoned, “This must be Sītā,” recalling the signs that Rāma had described, for she had been carried off by that rākṣasa who could assume any form. Just as she was seen then, so was this woman now: her face as radiant as the full moon, with beautiful brows and lovely, rounded breasts. Even in her sorrow, she shone with her natural radiance, dispelling the darkness around her like a goddess. Her throat was dark, her lips red as bimba fruit, her waist slender, and her posture firm. Sītā, with eyes like lotus petals, was as dear to the world as Rati is to Kāma, and as radiant as the full moon. She sat on the ground, slender as a young moonbeam, sighing deeply and fearful, like the wife of the serpent king. Yet, enveloped by a great net of sorrow, she did not shine—like a flame covered by a mass of smoke. She seemed to Hanumān like memory, confused; like prosperity, fallen; like faith, destroyed; like hope, thwarted. She was like success beset by obstacles, intelligence tainted, or fame fallen by false slander. Afflicted by separation from Rāma and oppressed by the host of rākṣasas, Sītā was weak, her eyes like a fawn’s, glancing anxiously around her. Her face, framed by dark, curved eyelashes, was wet with tears; she was not cheerful, sighing again and again. Wearing dirt and mud, dejected and worthy of adornment but unadorned, she was like the radiance of the lord of stars veiled by dark clouds. Seeing Sītā in such a state, Hanumān’s mind was troubled, as if his knowledge had become slack from lack of practice. Yet, through his sorrow, Hanumān recognized Sītā, unadorned, just as one recognizes speech deprived of refinement, which has changed its meaning. Observing her—broad-eyed and blameless—he reasoned, “This is Sītā,” and found supporting evidence. He remembered the ornaments Rāma had described adorning Vaidehī’s limbs. He saw those very garlands, still beautifying her body. Her earrings, well-crafted and set in her ears, and her well-formed canine teeth; her hands adorned with ornaments of gems and coral—these, darkened from long use yet well-shaped, were indeed those Rāma had spoken of. Those that were missing he did not see; those that remained matched Rāma’s description without doubt. Her upper garment, yellow and bordered with gold, had slipped down; Hanumān recalled how the monkeys had seen that fine cloth caught in the trees. Her principal ornaments had been seen on the ground, cast off by her, large and resounding. The garment she now wore, though more soiled from long use, still retained its original splendor. “This golden-complexioned lady is Rāma’s beloved queen,” Hanumān thought, “though lost, she does not depart from his heart.” She is the one for whose sake Rāma suffers in four ways: with compassion, with kindness, with grief, and with love. He calls her “lost woman” out of compassion, “one who has sought refuge” out of kindness, “lost wife” out of grief, and “beloved” out of love. As is her beauty and grace, so is Rāma’s form; she of dark eyes belongs to him. Her mind is fixed upon him, and his upon her; this devotion alone sustains their lives, even for a moment. Rāma has accomplished what is difficult: though deprived of Sītā, he sustains his own body and does not sink under grief. Thus, seeing Sītā in this way, Hanumān, the son of the wind, was filled with delight. He turned his thoughts to Rāma and praised that noble lord.