With a keen eye, Rama beheld Lakshmana, instantly sensing the tempest of emotions that arose within him. The steadfast prince, ever loyal to his elder brother, observed the sorrow and disappointment that darkened Rama’s countenance. His voice, laden with indignation, rang out:
“O noble one! Sugreeva, the monkey king, seems to have strayed from the path of righteousness. He has failed to grasp the profound workings of karma. Wealth and power, fickle as they are, shall soon abandon him. Even now, he has lost sight of his solemn vow! Alas! He has turned complacent, intoxicated by newfound security, forgetting the very promise upon which his throne rests. If indeed he has forsaken his duty, he is unworthy of his crown. My heart seethes with wrath at this injustice! I shall dethrone him and anoint Angada, who shall dedicate himself to the noble quest for Sita. Let Sugreeva return to the forests and mountains whence he came!”
Rama, the terror of his foes, gauging the storm of fury in Lakshmana’s heart, sought to temper his wrath with measured words:
“Lakshmana, you are known for your virtue and wisdom—do not stain your soul with the sin of dethroning a king. Curb your anger with the reins of discretion. Remember Sugreeva’s humble beginnings and the bond we forged in our time of need. True, the days have passed, and his promise remains unfulfilled, but does that render him faithless? Approach him with gentle words, for persuasion yields where force may fail.”
Thus counseled by his revered brother, Lakshmana strode toward the kingdom of Kishkindha, his mind fixed on Rama’s welfare. His visage, radiant like the sun in its midday glory, bore the stamp of unshakable resolve. Bow in hand, quiver brimming with arrows, he walked like Yama himself, the god of death, his thoughts simmering with unspoken rage.
As he neared the gates of Kishkindha, built amidst mighty mountains and fortified against all foes, his keen gaze swept over the legions of monkey warriors standing guard. Their presence only stoked his anger. The sight of his towering form, his eyes ablaze, sent a ripple of fear among them. Some clutched stones, others brandished trees as weapons, their spirits unsettled by the presence of the mighty prince. Yet, Lakshmana burned like a firestorm upon a mountain of dry wood, his wrath likened to Yama striding forth with his noose of judgment.
Scattered by terror, the monkeys fled to Sugreeva’s palace, their voices trembling as they reported the arrival of a warrior whose very gait mirrored the majesty of a raging elephant. But Sugreeva, lost in the intoxication of pleasure, heeded them not. He lay amidst his women, his senses dulled by wine and revelry. Only when his ministers, wise, summoned the mighty warriors—those who needed no weapons save their fangs and claws—did he begin to stir. These fierce protectors, whose strength rivaled a thousand elephants, stood ready to defend their king.
Yet, Lakshmana’s fury only deepened. The idle complacency of Sugreeva, the delay in fulfilling his oath, the grief etched upon Rama’s face—all ignited his righteous wrath. His eyes, reddened like embers in the wind, blazed with a fire that could consume all before him. His quiver of arrows, like flickering tongues of flame, and his bow, poised like a venomous serpent, cast an aura of foreboding upon all who beheld him.
Angada, son of the fallen Vali, beheld Lakshmana’s fearsome visage and trembled. Approaching him with deference, he bowed and inquired of his purpose. Lakshmana, his voice like thunder, declared:
“O valiant prince! Go swiftly to Sugreeva and tell him that I stand at his gates, summoned by my brother’s grief and disappointment. Let him remember his oath, for I shall wait no longer!”
Angada, troubled by the weight of Lakshmana’s words, hastened to the king and relayed the dire message. Yet, Sugreeva, still ensnared in the haze of revelry, remained indifferent. Fear gripped the hearts of the monkey warriors, their pleas for Lakshmana’s mercy lost in the winds of fate. A moment of hesitation passed, then, as if roused by destiny itself, they raised a war cry—shattering the king’s lethargy. Sugreeva, his eyes bloodshot, his ornaments scattered in disarray, at last stirred.
His ministers, Plaksha and Prabhava, stepped forth, their voices laden with urgency:
“O noble king! Forget not who placed this crown upon your head. Rama and Lakshmana are not merely allies—they are your saviors and well-wishers! Even now, Lakshmana stands at your gates, his fury a tempest that shakes the very earth. The warriors tremble, the palace quakes—heed this summons before it is too late! O king, honor your word! Let not indulgence cloud your duty. The world watches as fate unfurls its grand design, guiding each event toward the ultimate purpose: the triumph of righteousness and the vanquishing of evil.”
