As Hanuman moved quietly through the Ashoka grove, his keen eyes took in the astonishing forms of the rākṣasīs who guarded the place. He saw one whose ears and forehead drooped, another with a sagging belly and breasts, some with enormous lips and chins, and one whose mouth hung open wide. There was one with knees that seemed to melt downward. His gaze fell on figures both short and tall, some hunched and twisted, others dwarfish and fierce, their faces contorted, their eyes tawny and wild, their features strangely deformed. Among them were those with distorted, dark, and angry faces, always itching for quarrels, brandishing black iron spikes and heavy maces. Some bore the faces of boars, deer, tigers, buffalo, or goats. Others had the feet of elephants, camels, or horses, while a few seemed to have their heads buried in their own bodies. There were those with only one hand or one foot, ears like those of donkeys, horses, cows, elephants, or monkeys—each more peculiar than the last. He saw some with noses so large they dominated their faces, others with slanted or missing noses, some with elephant-like trunks, and some who breathed only through their foreheads. Their feet, too, varied: elephantine, huge, cow-like, or padded like wild beasts. Some had heads and necks so large they seemed grotesque, with immense breasts and bellies. Their mouths and eyes were oversized, tongues and faces unusually long; some had the faces of goats, elephants, cows, or pigs. There were those with horse, camel, or donkey faces—terrifying rākṣasīs, clutching spikes and maces, always angry and eager for strife. Their hair was wild and smoky, their faces twisted, and they drank liquor constantly, always craving meat. These fierce rākṣasīs sat in a circle around a great tree, and beneath its spreading branches sat the blameless royal princess, Sita. Hanuman, filled with splendor, gazed upon Janaka’s daughter. She appeared dimmed, her beauty scorched by sorrow, her hair matted and tangled with dirt. Her merit seemed depleted, as if she had fallen to earth like a star cast down. Though rich in virtue, she was now suffering deeply, torn from her beloved husband. She wore no fine ornaments, her only adornment the memory of Rama’s love. Confined by the rākṣasa chief, separated from her kin, she was surrounded by troops of rākṣasīs, hemmed in like an elephant cow among hunters. She was like a crescent moon veiled by clouds, or hidden by the mists of autumn. Though her form was distressed, she remained untouched, like a lute whose strings are out of tune. She was wholly devoted to her husband’s welfare, yet subject to the harsh watch of the rākṣasīs. In the midst of the Ashoka grove, she was plunged deep in sorrow, surrounded by these fearsome women—like Rohini among the stars. Hanuman saw her there, a creeper stripped of its flowers, her body smeared with dirt yet still radiant with beauty—like a lotus stalk stained with mud, shining yet not shining. Her clothes were soiled and worn, yet she glowed with an inner light. Hanuman, the monkey, beheld her—her eyes soft and gentle as a fawn’s, her form covered and modest. That goddess, Sita, though sorrowful, was undaunted; protected by her own virtue, her dark eyes shone, radiant with the glory of her husband. Hanuman saw her, her gaze frightened like a young doe, glancing all around, as if her sighs could scorch the leafy trees, as if she were a mass of sorrow, as if a wave of suffering had arisen within her. Yet her limbs were well-formed, and her beauty undiminished, even without ornaments. Upon seeing the princess of Mithila, Maruti felt incomparable joy. Tears of happiness welled in Hanuman’s eyes as he beheld her intoxicating gaze, and there, he bowed in reverence to Rama. Having paid homage to Rama and Lakshmana, the mighty Hanuman, delighted at finding Sita, concealed himself among the branches. Now begins the eighteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the Sundara Kāṇḍa. As Hanuman searched the blossoming forest for Vaidehi, the night was nearly spent. He heard the sacred chanting of the Vedas and the sounds of sacrificial rites performed by Brahmarākṣasas—those learned in all six branches of the Veda—echoing through the darkness. Then, accompanied by auspicious music and delightful sounds, the mighty ten-headed Rāvaṇa was awakened. The illustrious king of the rākṣasas, garlanded and robed in drooping finery, rose from his slumber, his thoughts immediately turning to Vaidehi. Overwhelmed by passion and unable to conceal his longing, Rāvaṇa’s desire for Sita burned within him. Adorned in splendid ornaments, radiant beyond compare, he entered the grove—a place alive with trees heavy with blossoms and fruits of every kind. Lotus ponds glittered, ringed with a profusion of flowers, always alive with wondrous, intoxicated birds. The groves were filled with delightful animals, captivating to the eye, and avenues arched with jewels and gold. As he entered the Ashoka grove, dense with trees and scattered with fallen fruits, he was followed by a hundred women—like celestial Gandharva maidens trailing Mahendra, the descendant of Pulastya. Some bore golden lamps, others carried fly-whisks made of hair, and some held palm fans. Others walked ahead with golden vessels of water, while still others followed behind with circular fans. One woman, with her right hand, carried a radiant drinking vessel of gems, filled to the brim. Another followed with a parasol gleaming like the full moon, its golden handle shining, resembling a royal swan. Thus, the scene was set: Hanuman, hidden and watchful, Sita sorrowful yet steadfast, and Rāvaṇa approaching with all his pomp and desire, the Ashoka grove filled with both dread and hope.