Once, there was a king named Dasharatha, renowned among the Ikshvakus, whose domain overflowed with chariots, elephants, and horses. He was a man of virtue and great fame, excelling in the qualities of royal sages and equal to the great seers in austerity. Born in the illustrious line of emperors, Dasharatha was mighty, his strength likened to Indra himself. He delighted in non-violence, was free from greed, compassionate, and upheld the courage of truth. As chief of the Ikshvaku dynasty, he was adorned with fortune, his prosperity ever increasing. Endowed with royal marks and radiant splendor, Dasharatha was a bull among kings, celebrated throughout the four quarters of the earth, a giver of happiness and himself content. His beloved eldest son was Rama, whose face shone like the moon. Rama was discerning, the best among all wielders of the bow. He guarded his own conduct, protected his people and all living beings, scorched his foes, and upheld righteousness. Obeying the command of his aged father, who was steadfast in truth, Rama, the hero, departed for the forest with his wife Sita and his brother Lakshmana. There, while hunting in the vast wilderness, Rama slew many powerful rakshasas, masters of illusion. When news of the slaughter at Janasthana and the defeat of Khara and Dushana reached Ravana, he, enraged, seized Janaki—Sita. Ravana deceived Rama in the forest, taking the form of a magical deer. While Rama searched for Sita, Ravana abducted her, O faultless Sita. In the forest, Rama met a friend, Sugriva, a monkey. Rama, conqueror of enemy cities, killed Vali, restoring the monkey kingdom to the great-souled Sugriva. At Sugriva’s command, monkeys with the power to assume any form searched for the goddess Sita in all directions, by the thousands. I, Hanuman, following the words of Sampati, crossed the ocean, a hundred yojanas wide, for the sake of that wide-eyed lady. Swiftly I crossed the sea and found her, just as she was described—in form, color, and beauty. I heard from Rama himself that she was found by me; having spoken thus, the foremost of monkeys fell silent. Janaki, upon hearing this, was filled with utmost wonder. With her beautiful hair ending in curls, covering her face, the fearful Sita raised her gaze toward the shimshapa tree. Hearing the monkey’s words, and looking in every direction, Sita felt the highest joy, remembering Rama with all her heart. She looked sideways, upward, and downward, and beheld that minister of the tawny monkey king, the wind-god’s son, whose mind is unfathomable, shining like the sun rising in the sky. Now, hear the thirty-second chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Sundara Kāṇḍa. Seeing Hanuman hidden among the branches, Sita’s mind was disturbed. He was wrapped in white bark garments, tawny like a mass of lightning. There she saw the monkey, humble and speaking kindly, shining like a cluster of blossoming ashoka flowers, with eyes like molten gold. Seeing the best of monkeys standing there respectfully, Maithili was filled with utmost wonder and began to ponder. “Ah, this monkey’s nature is fearsome, impossible to approach,” she thought. “It is impossible even to look at him.” Again, she fell into confusion. Greatly distressed, Sita lamented pitifully, overcome by fear and confusion, crying out in her sorrow, “Rama!” and also “Lakshmana!” Suddenly Sita wept, her voice soft and low. Then, seeing the best of monkeys approach respectfully, Maithili thought, “This must be a dream.” She gazed at the broad-jawed face of the king of monkeys as described, and saw the foremost tawny monkey, most precious, the wind-god’s son, best among the wise. Seeing him, Sita was deeply shaken, as if her life had left her. After a long time, regaining her senses, the wide-eyed lady began to reflect. “Today I have seen this strange monkey in a dream, which is forbidden by the treatises on dreams. May Rama, with Lakshmana, be safe, and so too my father, King Janaka. But this is not a dream, for I have no sleep—afflicted as I am by grief and sorrow. I have no happiness, ever since I was separated from him whose face is like the full moon. Always, in thought and in speech, I utter only ‘Rama, Rama,’ and I reflect on him alone. I see and hear only those things that relate to him. Indeed, today I am tormented by love for him, my whole being absorbed in him. Constantly I think only of him, and thus I see and hear only him. I wonder, ‘Could this be a wish fulfilled?’ Yet I reason and question with my mind: What is the cause, for his form is not here—yet this one before me speaks to me with his clear appearance. Homage to Vācaspati, the lord of speech, to the wielder of the thunderbolt, to the self-born, and to the fire-god! May what has been spoken here before me by this forest-dweller come to pass—let it not be otherwise.” Let the thirty-third chapter be heard in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Sundara Kāṇḍa. Then, Hanuman descended from the tree, his face radiant like coral, humble in appearance and sorrowful. He approached and bowed down. The mighty son of the wind-god, with hands joined in reverence upon his head, spoke to Sita in sweet words: “O faultless one, who are you, with eyes like lotus petals, clad in soiled silk, standing on the branch of this tree? Why do tears born of sorrow flow from your eyes, like water scattered from lotus and palāśa leaves? Among the gods, asuras, nāgas, gandharvas, rākṣasas, yakṣas, and kinnaras—who are you, O beautiful one? Are you one among the Rudras, or the Maruts, O lovely-faced one? Or among the Vasus, O graceful lady? You appear to me as a goddess.” Thus Hanuman spoke, and the tale of Rama, Sita, and Hanuman unfolded in the sacred Sundara Kāṇḍa.