Hanumān, having found Sītā in the Aśoka grove, gazed at her with compassion and wonder. He addressed her with gentle words, “O dark-eyed lady, are you perhaps Arundhatī herself, famed for her virtue, who, out of anger or confusion, has left her husband Vasiṣṭha after offending him? O slender-waisted one, for whose sake do you grieve—your son, father, brother, or husband—having passed from this world to the next? From your tears, your deep sighs, and the way you touch the ground, I do not believe you are a goddess; you bear the marks of a king’s wife. “I observe in you the signs of royalty; surely, you must be the queen of a king or a royal princess. If you are Sītā, who was seized by Rāvaṇa by force from Janasthāna, may all be well with you—please tell me, for I ask. By your humility, your extraordinary beauty, and the ascetic garb you wear, you must indeed be Rāma’s queen.” Hearing Hanumān’s words and delighted by the mention of Rāma, Sītā, the daughter of Videha, replied from beneath the tree, her heart stirred. “I am the daughter-in-law of Daśaratha, destroyer of enemy armies, foremost among lion-like kings, and knower of his own self. I am the daughter of Janaka, the great-souled king of Videha; my name is Sītā, wife of the wise Rāma. “For twelve years I dwelled in Rāma’s house, enjoying the happiness of human life and fulfilled in every desire. In the thirteenth year, the king, together with his priests, began preparations to install the descendant of Ikṣvāku as king. While the consecration of Rāma was being arranged, Kaikeyī spoke these words to her husband: ‘I will neither eat nor drink; this is the end of my life if Rāma is anointed. That promise you made to me out of affection, O best of kings—if it is not to be in vain, let Rāma go to the forest.’ “The king, steadfast in truth, remembered the boon he had granted her and was overcome with grief on hearing Kaikeyī’s cruel words. That aged king, established in dharma, weeping, asked his illustrious eldest son to relinquish the kingdom. Rāma, already having accepted his father’s command in his heart—which was dearer to him than the throne—accepted it in words as well. Rāma, whose valor is in truth, would give but not take, would speak the truth and never falsehood, even at the cost of his own life. “He set aside his costly garments, renounced the kingdom in his heart, and entrusted me to his mother. But I quickly set out before him as a dweller of the forest, for even residence in heaven does not please me if separated from him. Even before that, the illustrious Saumitri, delight of his friends, adorned with grass and bark, had set out to accompany his elder brother. “We, honoring our husband’s command and firm in our vows, entered the deep and awe-inspiring forest, unknown to us before. While I dwelled in the Dandaka forest with that mighty one, I was carried off by Rāvaṇa, the wicked rakṣasa. He has granted me a period of two months to preserve my life; after those two months, I will give up my life.” Thus ends the thirty-third chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Sundara Kāṇḍa. Hearing Sītā’s sorrowful words, Hanumān, foremost among the monkeys, spoke words of comfort to her. “O lady, I have come to you as a messenger on Rāma’s behalf; Vaidehī, Rāma is well and has enquired about your welfare. He who knows the Brahma weapon and the Vedas, the best among those who know the Vedas, that son of Daśaratha, Rāma, has enquired about your welfare. Lakṣmaṇa, of great energy and your dear companion, bows his head to you, distressed by your sorrow.” Hearing of the well-being of those two lion-like men, Sītā, with all her limbs delighted, spoke to Hanumān. “Truly, this worldly saying appears auspicious to me: ‘The joy of seeing a loved one alive surpasses even a hundred years.’” In that meeting, a wonderful joy arose, and the two, trusting each other, engaged in conversation. As Hanumān approached the grief-stricken Sītā, her suspicion grew—she began to fear that this must be Rāvaṇa in disguise. “Alas, shame on me for having spoken thus! For, having assumed another form, this must indeed be Rāvaṇa,” she thought. Leaving the branch of the aśoka tree, her body worn down by grief, Sītā, flawless in form, sat down on the ground. The mighty-armed Hanumān bowed to her, but she, terrified, did not look at him again. Seeing him bowing, Sītā, her face like the moon, addressed the monkey in a sweet voice after a deep sigh. “If you are Rāvaṇa himself, master of illusion, having assumed a magical form to cause me further distress, that is not proper. You, who once abandoned your own form and appeared as an ascetic in Janasthāna—you must indeed be that same Rāvaṇa whom I saw.