The son of Vayu, his limbs dusted with the ashes of battle and eyes bright with the fire of triumph, returned from the dread isle of Lanka and stood before the noble son of Dasharatha. With folded hands and voice steeped in reverence, he spoke thus: “O prince of the, I bring tidings from the very heart of peril.
The lady Sītā, purest flame of virtue, did not waver in her fidelity. Though the chance to flee shone before her, she turned not from the law of righteousness. I offered to lift her upon my back, to carry her across sea and sky unto Prasravana’s peak where your presence waits. But she, whose soul is steeped in dharma, did not consent. For though my intent was pure, the act would mirror the very treachery with which Rāvaṇa bore her hence.
Such subtle wisdom she bore that even in despair, her mind remained aligned with the sacred path. She would be reclaimed not by stealth, but by the hand of her lord in rightful conquest. I understood her resolve, for my own heart, though housed in the form of a monkey, bears the weight of honor. Thus, I urged haste. A bridge must be flung upon the churning ocean, and across that path must march the host of the vanaras, fierce in spirit though humble in form.
Already their roar has stirred the coasts of Lankā, their strength has darkened its skies, their courage has shaken its towers. They are beasts in body but divine in flame—sparked by wind, anointed by fire, sworn to the cause of righteousness. United, they will now rival the might of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa themselves.
The heavens murmur, the earth stirs—Rāvaṇa’s reign falters. And these were her words: ‘Tell the son of Daśaratha—let him rise in valor, let him face the ten-headed tyrant in just combat and claim me without delay.’ For when your presence is near her, O Rāma, even sorrow seems to slumber. But now she is torn—between the ache of your absence and the thread of hope that your return draws near. Her grief flows like a river with neither end nor shore, and she wonders aloud if her breath shall last to see your face once more.
Yet she spoke not of death, but of honor: ‘Let my lord conquer the hosts of darkness,’ she said, ‘let him vanquish Rāvaṇa not by stealth but by battle, and let him take me back with the dignity due to one who was stolen unjustly.’ Her words struck deep, vast as the ocean’s own heart, and I, hearing them, knew what must come. Behold, the vanaras, children of heaven, are swift as lightning and bold as storm-clouds.
Their strength lies not only in limb but in loyalty and fire. They shall rise from the mountains and fall upon Lankā from every path. Mount Malaya shall groan beneath their steps. And you, Rāma, who once trod the forest in silence, shall cast aside exile and rise again to the throne of Ayodhyā, with Sītā beside you. When the lady heard of your sorrow, her own sorrow deepened, yet she did not break. I spoke, and though the path was steep with anguish, she steadied herself and held firm.
Now, noble prince, the doors of fate swing wide. Before us lies a turning of the world, where time gathers like stormclouds to pour its tale upon the earth. Dharma shall awaken, ruin shall be undone, and a new age shall be born. Thus, at the meeting of valor and destiny, the wheel of time hastens its turn. The tale nears its thunderous crest, and the world shall remember this as the hour when righteousness stood tall and evil fell beneath its light.”
