Having found Sītā unharmed and witnessed her with his own eyes, Hanumān, the noble monkey, knew that his cherished mission was accomplished. Content that the princess was safe, he made up his mind to begin his return journey. As the next chapter of the Sundara Kāṇḍa unfolds, Hanumān approached Sītā, who sat beneath the spreading branches of the śiṃśapā tree. With deep reverence, he greeted her and spoke: “By great fortune, I see you here unharmed.” Sītā, her gaze lingering on Hanumān again and again as he prepared to depart, spoke with words filled with love for her husband. “If you think it right, dear one, remain here for just a single night, O sinless one. Rest somewhere well-concealed, and leave tomorrow. For me, so unfortunate, your presence would bring even a moment’s relief from this immeasurable sorrow. Once you, O tiger among monkeys, have gone, I will have no confidence even in my own life until you return, O foremost of Vānaras. Your absence will torment me again, who am already afflicted and weighed down by grief, bringing me a pain greater than pain itself.” She continued, her voice trembling with concern, “A doubt troubles me: Even with such mighty allies among the monkeys and bears, how will they cross the vast ocean? How will those armies of monkeys and bears, and the two sons of the best of men, cross the ocean that is so difficult to pass? Among all beings, only three might have the power to leap across the ocean—Garuḍa, you, or the Wind-god. Now that such a daunting obstacle stands in the way, what solution do you see? For you are skilled in finding a way. Indeed, you alone are sufficient to accomplish this task, O slayer of enemy heroes; your fame is established by your success. Yet, if Rāma, destroyer of enemy forces, were to fill Laṅkā with his armies and lead me away, that would be most fitting for him. Therefore, as is proper for that great-souled, valiant hero in battle, so you must arrange matters accordingly.” Hearing Sītā’s respectful and well-considered words, Hanumān, the heroic son of the Wind-god, replied with assurance: “O lady, Sugrīva, lord of the monkey and bear armies, foremost among those who leap, and endowed with virtue, is firmly resolved to act for your sake. That Sugrīva, surrounded by thousands and millions of Vānaras, will come here quickly, O Vaidehī. And those two heroes, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, best among men, will come together to Laṅkā and strike it with their arrows. Having slain the Rākṣasa along with his retinue, the delight of the Raghu lineage will soon take you, O lovely-hipped one, and return to his own city. Take heart, may good fortune be yours; do not long for death. Soon you will see Rāvaṇa slain in battle by Rāma. When the lord of the Rākṣasas is slain, along with his sons, ministers, and kinsmen, you will be reunited with Rāma, as Rohiṇī is with the moon. Very soon Kākutstha, surrounded by the foremost of monkeys and bears, will come; he who, having conquered your enemies in battle, will remove your sorrow.” Thus consoling Sītā, Hanumān, having resolved to depart, took leave of her. He had slain the foremost Rākṣasas, proclaimed his own name, consoled Sītā, and displayed his immense strength. He had thrown the city into turmoil, deceived Rāvaṇa, shown his dreadful power, and, after saluting Sītā, he set his mind to return across the ocean. Eager to see his lord again, that tiger among monkeys, crusher of enemies, ascended the best of mountains, Ariṣṭa. The mountain stood tall, crowned with deep blue forests and blossoming lotuses. Clouds hung between its peaks like upper garments, as if the mountain were being awakened with joy by the sun’s bright rays. Its minerals gleamed like wide-open eyes, as if the mountain itself delighted in the moment. The deep sounds of rushing waters seemed to recite sacred texts, and the varied melodies of many streams made it appear as if the mountain were being sung to. The deodar trees, shaken by the wind, gave the mountain the look of one with arms raised in exultation. All around, the roar of waterfalls called out, and the dark forests, swaying in the autumn wind, made the mountain tremble as if in response. The bamboo reeds, stirred by the breeze, sang, and the dreadful hissing of the best of serpents sounded like angry sighs. Deep caves, shrouded in mist, gave the impression of the mountain lost in meditation, while its foothills, resembling the bases of clouds, seemed to advance on all sides. Its peaks, wreathed in clouds, yawned into the sky, and the cliffs and caves added to its rugged beauty. The mountain was covered with sāla, tāla, karṇa, and bamboo trees, decorated with flowering vines, and filled with wild animals. Streams of minerals sparkled, springs abounded, and clusters of rocks crowded its slopes. It was frequented by great sages, yakṣas, gandharvas, kinnaras, and serpents; dense with creepers and trees, its caves were inhabited by lions and its forests by tigers and other beasts. Trees bearing sweet roots and fruits grew in abundance. Driven by intense joy at the thought of seeing Rāma again, Hanumān, the best among monkeys and son of the Wind-god, pressed his feet upon the lovely mountain slopes, ready to leap across the ocean once more.