Hanūmān looked for Sītā everywhere in the vicinity of the palace. He searched the creeper-covered pavilions, picture galleries, and night rooms, but was unable to find her. He fell into despair and thought, ‘Sītā must have been killed by the rākṣasa or must have died of his torture. What will I tell the vānaras? Well, dauntless self-reliance is the root of all success and is the gateway to happiness.
Hanūmān assumed a body of immeasurable size right in front of the vānaras. Pressed down by the huge vānara, the mountain trembled for a moment which caused the fresh blossoms from the trees to fall; waters poured out from the mountain and it looked like an elephant in rut exuding ichor from its temples; huge boulders tinged with gold and silver tumbled down due to Hanūmān’s force. Preparing to leap, Hanūmān let out a mighty roar and had goosebumps all over his body.
Hanumān, Aṅgada, Tāra, and other vānaras looked for Sītā in all possible places in the direction indicated by Sugrīva. They searched the caves and thickets of the Vindhyās and were exhausted. As they were craving for water, they came across an enormous cavern overgrown with trees and creepers. They saw swans, krauñcas, sārasas, and cakravākas flying out of the cavern, their bodies wet and red with pollen grains of lotus. Hanumān deduced that there must be water inside the cavern and entered it along with the other vānaras, who were excited.
Once the sky was free of clouds, Rāma, who had waited patiently the entire rainy season, was overcome with intense desire to regain the company of Sītā. He looked at the clear skies of the autumn night and the shining orb of the moon. Realising that Sugrīva was given over to lust and that the right time for action had passed, Rāma lamented deeply. He cried, “My beloved, whose voice was as sweet as the sārasas, found delight in their calls; how will she find enjoyment now? The beautiful lady used to wake up to the calls of the divine swans in the past.
Vālī’s wife Tārā heard that her husband had been struck down by an arrow shot by Rāma. She rushed out with her son from her cave-residence. At the sight of Rāma with his bow, many timid vānaras started fleeing. They warned Tārā not to go to the vicinity of Rāma and said, “Let our warriors protect the city and Aṅgada assumes kingship. We will all serve him!” Nevertheless, Tārā went to her mortally wounded husband and lamented, “O peerless warrior in battles! Why do you now not speak to this wretched woman, who has done no wrong! Rise up, tiger among vānaras!
Sugrīva was immensely pleased with Rāma’s promise but he wanted to make him understand Vālī’s prowess. He said, “Even before the Sun rises, Vālī traverses from the western to the eastern ocean and from the southern to the northern, without even the semblance of fatigue. He scales mountains, tosses their peaks up in the air, and catches them again. He enters the forest, shattering all kinds of mighty trees. In the past, there lived a powerful asura in the form of a buffalo. He was called Dundubhi and possessed the might of a thousand elephants.
Rāma arrived at Lake Pampā that was full of lotus and lilies and was teeming with fish. The mere sight of the lake sent a joyous tremble through his body. But the next moment, he had an intense longing for love and said to Saumitri, “Look at Lake Pampā and the delightful woods around. The trees look like tall mountains with lofty crusts. But I still grieve over Bharata’s sorrow and the abduction of Vaidehī. This grassland, deep green and yellow, is carpeted with colourful flowers of different trees and captivates the eyes.
Though Rāghava was the elder of the two, he immediately accepted the advice of Lakṣmaṇa, recognising the essential truth the latter had spoken. Accordingly, the brothers went ahead searching for Sītā in all possible places. They spotted the illustrious Jaṭāyu, as huge as a mountain peak, drenched in blood. Immediately, Rāma told Lakṣmaṇa, “Sītā has been undoubtedly devoured by this creature. This is certainly a rākṣasa, who roams around in the forest in the form of a vulture. Look at him! He lies there comfortably, having killed my beloved.
As she was being carried away by Rāvaṇa, Sītā was stricken with misery. With her eyes red with anger, she said, “You don’t appear to feel ashamed for performing this ignoble deed. I’m sure it was you, a vicious coward, who contrived to get my husband away by resorting to the illusion of a deer, so that you can carry me off. You even struck down the brave creature that tried to save me. You have displayed wonderful prowess, O vilest of rākṣasas! You did not win me in a battle! People around the world will forever speak of this despicable deed of yours.
Back in the āśrama, Sītā heard the cry of distress, which sounded just like her husband and with great anxiety she instructed Lakṣmaṇa, “Go and find out what has happened to Rāghava, for my very life is perturbed by the sound of his cry of anguish. Rush to your brother’s rescue, Lakṣmaṇa! He has fallen into the hands of rākṣasas, like a bull fallen prey to lions.” Recalling his brother’s instruction, Lakṣmaṇa did not go. Angered by this, Sītā said, “Saumitri! You are your brother’s enemy, masquerading as a friend. You refuse to aid him when he is in danger.