Afflicted by separation from Rāma and tormented by the host of rākṣasas, Sītā, her strength waning, gazed about anxiously with her gentle, fawn-like eyes. Her face, adorned with dark, curved lashes, was streaked with tears and clouded by sorrow; she found no joy, sighing repeatedly in her grief. Though she was worthy of every adornment, she wore only dirt and mud, her beauty veiled like the moon’s radiance hidden behind dark clouds. As Hanumān beheld Sītā in this pitiable state, his mind was unsettled, as if his knowledge had grown dull from neglect. Yet, even in her sorrow and lack of ornament, Hanumān recognized her—just as one might discern meaning in speech, though it has lost its polish. Observing her broad-eyed and blameless, the noble princess, Hanumān reasoned, “This is Sītā,” and supported his conviction with careful evidence. He recalled the ornaments that Rāma once described to him—those very garlands and jewels that had graced Vaidehī’s limbs. He saw her earrings, beautifully crafted and set in her ears, her well-formed teeth, and her hands adorned with ornaments of gems and coral. Though these ornaments had darkened from long use, their shapes and details matched exactly what Rāma had recounted. Those missing were not to be seen, and those remaining were unmistakably the same. Her upper garment, yellow and bordered with gold, had slipped down; Hanumān remembered the fine cloth that the monkeys had seen caught in the trees. Her principal ornaments had been seen cast off on the ground, large and resounding as they fell. The garment she wore was soiled from long wear, yet its color remained undiminished, still splendid as of old. Hanumān’s heart swelled with certainty: this golden-complexioned lady was Rāma’s beloved queen, who, though lost, never departed from his heart. It was for her sake that Rāma suffered in fourfold ways—with compassion, with kindness, with grief, and with love. He called her “lost woman” out of compassion, “one who has sought refuge” out of kindness, “lost wife” out of grief, and “beloved” out of love. The beauty and grace of this lady’s limbs and features matched Rāma’s own form; she of dark eyes belonged to him. Her mind was fixed on Rāma, and his on her; it was only by this steadfast devotion that both continued to live, even for a moment, despite their separation. Rāma had accomplished what was most difficult: though deprived of her, he sustained himself and did not succumb to grief. Thus, upon seeing Sītā in such a state, Hanumān, the son of the wind, rejoiced inwardly and turned his thoughts to Rāma, praising the great lord. Now begins the sixteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Sundara Kāṇḍa. Having praised the virtuous Sītā, Hanumān, foremost among monkeys, again became absorbed in thought about Rāma. After a moment of meditation, his eyes filled with tears as he reflected on Sītā’s plight, and he lamented. He thought, “She is honored, devoted to her elders, and dear to Lakṣmaṇa, who is himself ever respectful. If Sītā, though so noble, is lost due to sorrow, truly time is insurmountable.” Yet, knowing Rāma’s resolve and Lakṣmaṇa’s wisdom, Sītā was not overwhelmed by distress, just as the Gaṅgā remains steady at the onset of the rains. Rāghava deserves Vaidehī, for she matches him in character, age, conduct, family, and marks—and she, the dark-eyed one, deserves him as well. Seeing her, shining like new gold, resplendent as Fortune herself, Hanumān again turned his mind to Rāma and spoke: “For the sake of this wide-eyed woman, the mighty Vāli—equal to Rāvaṇa in strength—was slain, and Kabandha too was brought down. Virādha, the fierce and powerful rākṣasa, was killed in battle by Rāma in the forest, just as Śambara was vanquished by mighty Indra. Fourteen thousand rākṣasas, doers of terrible deeds, were slain at Janasthāna by Rāma’s arrows blazing like fire. Khara was killed in battle, Triśiras was struck down, and the mighty Dūṣaṇa too—all by Rāma, knower of his own self. The kingship of the vānaras, once guarded by Vāli and hard to obtain, was won by the renowned Sugrīva for her sake. The glorious ocean, lord of rivers and streams, was crossed by me; and for this wide-eyed woman, I have entered and observed this city. If Rāma were to overturn the earth as far as the ocean for her sake, or even the whole world, it would be fitting—such is my thought. The kingdom of the three worlds, or Sītā, daughter of Janaka—even the entire sovereignty of the universe does not compare to a fraction of Sītā’s worth. This is Sītā, daughter of the great and righteous king Janaka, princess of Mithilā, steadfast in her vow to her husband. She is the eldest daughter-in-law of the illustrious king Daśaratha, wife of the valiant, noble, and unwavering hero in battle. She is the beloved wife of Rāma, knower of righteousness and gratitude, who understands his own self—now fallen into the power of a rākṣasī. Abandoning all enjoyments, compelled by her love for her husband, she entered the lonely forest, undaunted by hardships. Content with fruits and roots, devoted to serving her husband, she found supreme joy in the forest, as she would have in a palace.