The noble son of King Dasaratha, Prince Rama—radiant in virtue and resplendent in might—stood poised upon the precipice of destiny. With the keen insight of a sage and the boldness of a warrior, he pondered deeply the labyrinthine intricacies of invading Lanka and confronting the nether world of rakshasas. He marvelled not only at the ferocity of his foes but also at the cunning precision with which Ravana had fortified his kingdom—a fortress as intricate as it was formidable.
Then, in a voice resolute and resounding, he turned to Sugreeva and the assembled vanara warriors and declared, “The hour of Ravana’s ruin draws nigh! The very ground of Lanka shall tremble beneath the storm we bring. This disturbance I have stirred shall not be restrained by demon craft or might. Sugreeva! Let thy journey of war commence now. The sun crowns the heavens—this moment is auspicious! Ravana may have stolen Sita, but who shall deliver him from my wrath?”
He lifted his gaze skyward. “The star Uttaraphalguni governs this day, a herald of prosperity, fulfillment, and divine fruition. Tomorrow, the moon shall rise in Hasta—an omen of swift hands and success. We march today! For now, the signs are ripe, and the tremble in my right eye whispers of triumph. Sita, upon hearing of my march, shall rise with new life, as though Amrit was poured into one poisoned.”
Lakshmana and Sugreeva, with reverence, worshipped Rama in the manner of ancient rites. Then Rama spoke, his tone composed yet commanding, and unfolded the war’s grand design. “Let General Neela lead the vanguard—one hundred thousand vanaras strong. O General, guide the host through paths abundant in fruits and springs, for demons may lay waste to our provisions. Let the strong press on and the feeble stay behind in Kishkindha, for this mission is perilous, steeped in uncertainty.”
“Form battalions of strength and skill—each team a force of its own. Let Gaja, Gavaksha, and Gavaya, warriors of colossal might, stride in the front. Rushabha shall guard the right flank, and the mighty Gandhamadana, like an elephant unstoppable, shall protect the left. I shall ride upon the shoulders of Hanuman, traversing the ranks to awaken valour. Lakshmana shall be borne by Angada, whose eyes miss nothing. In the heart of the army, let the mighty Jambavantha, Sushena, and Vega lead the central surge.”
Sugreeva gave his consent and bid the vanaras prepare. With a thunder of wings and a roar that echoed across the land, the simian host ascended into the southern skies. Like winds unleashed, they flew in circles, devouring fruits and honey mid-flight, their war cries forming a mighty symphony of defiance.
Rushabha, Neela, and Kumuda carved swift paths through dense forests. Rama, Lakshmana, and Sugreeva moved amid the teeming multitude. Sathabali led ten crores of vanaras, his presence felt across the breadth of the host. Other mighty captains—Kesari, Panasa, Gaja—held key positions, while Jambavantha and Sushena guarded the rear. Valimukha, Prajangha, Jambha, and Rabhasa scouted the flanks, ensuring discipline and vigilance.
The army surged like a living ocean—unending, unstoppable. Some soared above Rama, Sugreeva, and Lakshmana in protective formations, while others raced, bounded, or glided across the earth. There was not a laggard among them, and day and night they pressed on.
Lakshmana turned to Rama, his voice steady with conviction. “Victory is yours, O brother! You shall return to Ayodhya, crowned with honour and glory. Every omen sings of success. The wind favours us, the beasts and birds speak peace, and the heavens shine with auspicious clarity.”
He gestured skyward. “Behold! Sukracharya, son of Sage Bhrigu, glows with brilliance. Dhruva, the unmoving pole star, reigns clear among the Saptarshis who dance joyfully in his orbit. Visvamitra, radiant before Trisanku, stands proud. Vishakha shines, untroubled, the very star of our Ikshvaku line. Moola, the demon’s star, lies shackled under Nirriti’s yoke—foretelling doom for the demon race.”
The waters gleamed with purity, fruits burst with flavour, and fragrant breezes whispered blessings. Flowers bloomed and the earth thrived. “O King,” Lakshmana cried, “this army of vanaras rivals the divine host that once descended upon Tarakasura! All portents favour you, and the earth itself seems cloaked in a cloak of golden fur, like a field of ripened grain.”
Their march brought them at last to the mighty Mount Mahendra, where Rama ascended the peak. From there, he beheld the ocean vast—its waves dashed upon rocks, teeming with fish and turtles. The forests of Malaya and Sahya lay behind; before him spread the roaring sea.
Together with Lakshmana, Rama entered a grove, where the waves crashed like tempests upon cliffs. “Sugreeva,” he said, “we have reached the edge. Now we must cross it. This ocean has no bed nor bridge. Artifice shall not serve—we must design anew. Let our forces rest here, and let none stray. Commanders shall keep the host in order.”
Evening descended. The sea churned with tides, its surface cloaked in froth. Crocodiles wrestled beneath the foam, while snakes with fire-like hoods danced upon the waves. The ocean shimmered with starlight, the sky and sea blending until pearls and stars were indistinguishable. Clouds and waves murmured like old friends.
The vanaras stood transfixed by the spectacle. The moment was sublime—a pause before the storm. For soon, Rama and Lakshmana would unleash divine fury upon Lanka, shattering the dark dominion of Ravana, and restoring peace and joy to the three worlds.
