The Demon King, Ravana, unwavering in his resolve, spoke once more to Maricha, who had long feared the wrath of Rama.
“Maricha,” he continued, “despite the ferocity of his combat in Dandakarnya, Rama inexplicably spared me. Let me recount the events that transpired thereafter.
Though terror-stricken by Rama, I clung stubbornly to my old ways and desires. Transformed into a beast and accompanied by two more demons, I ventured into Dandakarnya. With a burning tongue, a heavy body, and savage fangs, I prowled the forest, devouring animals in my path.
Ravana, in a dreadful and fearsome guise, I intruded upon sacred fires, desecrated hermitages, pilgrimage sites, and temples—consuming and slaughtering both men and beasts, instilling terror among the hermits. Boldly, I approached Rama in his ascetic pursuits, dwelling with Sita and Lakshmana in a forest hermitage.
In my monstrous form, sharp-horned and ignorant of his virtues, I presumed him to be an ordinary hermit, underestimated his might, and attacked—driven by enmity. Rama swiftly drew his bow, losing three arrows with the force of a tempest. These arrows, swift and sharp as Garuda, with the strength of diamonds and a thirst for our blood, surged toward us.
Realizing their deadly precision, I fled in a zigzag pattern, narrowly escaping, while the other two demons fell. My knowledge of Rama’s battle prowess and my magical expertise saved me, but my companions were not as fortunate.
Twice spared by fate from Rama’s fatal blows, I abandoned all comforts, ego, ambitions, and the desire to dominate. Embracing asceticism, I practiced yoga, seeking to align with my inner voice. Now, every tree reveals Rama’s presence to me, his bow and arrows ready, like Yama holding the noose of death. My mind, struck by terror, sees Rama’s form in every shadow, his army in every corner of the forest.
Ravana, my fear is so profound that even the sound of words beginning with ‘R’, like ‘Ratna’ or ‘Raja,’ chills me to the bone. I know the might of his actions. This enmity with him, Ravana, is not a burden you should bear. Rama can defeat the greatest of kings—even Bali or Namuchi. If you insist on fighting him, do so alone. I counsel against this path, for it will only lead to ruin. Do not involve Sita, for her very mention brings calamity.
Many righteous kings have perished because of others’ mistakes, Ravana. I will not join in your endeavor, knowing the fate that awaits us. Rama is a lord of death to wrongdoers. Surpanakha’s provocation led to the destruction of many demons. How can you blame Rama for their fate?
Ignoring my warnings, Ravana, you expose your people to grave peril, jeopardizing Lanka’s future.”
Maricha’s wise counsel fell on deaf ears, as Ravana, blinded by hubris, rejected it like a dying man refusing medicine. Under the sway of misfortune, he dismissed Maricha’s truths, speaking harshly:
“Maricha, your words are irrelevant, as futile as planting seeds in barren sands. Rama, a mere mortal, terrorizes without cause. Do not threaten me with his tales of might. I have chosen to confront him. He abandoned his throne for a woman’s whim and left his kin and realm behind.
This Rama must be separated from his beloved Sita—half his life—through your magic and tricks. Maricha, heed my command. Assume the form of a golden deer with silver spots and lure Sita. When she desires you, draw Rama away. Call out in his voice, feigning distress, so that Lakshmana, in concern, leaves Sita unguarded. I will then seize Sita and return to Lanka without a battle, crushing Rama’s spirit.
If you refuse, Maricha, this will be your end. I demand your obedience. Defy me, and you will not live to see another day.”
Ravana’s words hung heavy in the air—a final ultimatum before the play of fate unfolded in the grand design of the cosmos.