On the northern shores of the vast ocean, where the waters whispered warnings to the winds, the commander-in-chief Neela arrayed the vanara forces with vigilant precision, each rank placed in balance to safeguard against surprise. Ever alert were the invincible warriors, Mainda and Dvivida, who moved with silent swiftness across the lines, their keen eyes seeking out intruders cloaked in disguise. Though the army’s discipline lent strength to the heart, a shadow, faint yet persistent, crossed Rama’s mind—a flicker of despair amid the flame of purpose.
In quiet discourse with Lakshmana, Rama’s thoughts found voice: “Grief,” he said, “is said to wane with time, but mine grows fiercer by the day. Not distance, nor separation, torments me most—but the knowledge that Sita’s prime, her days of grace and joy, are wasted in fear, surrounded by monstrous women, when she ought to shine among us in honour and love. O Vayu, bearer of scent and sound, carry to her the fragrance of my yearning. Tell her gently of my love. When I gaze upon the moon, it comforts me faintly—for it is the same she sees, and in that shared light I feel her nearness. At the moment of her capture, her first cry may have been my name—Rama! The very thought burns my soul like poison. Her absence is fire that feeds upon my mind, faggots of sorrow unceasing.”
“If I were to drown in this ocean,” he went on, “still would the fire within remain unquenched. The single truth that sustains me is that she lives, that somewhere on this same earth walks Sita, daughter of Janaka, still breathing, still bound to life. Even the faint hope of her survival is like water upon a field parched for many moons. When shall my eyes behold her again, once I have scattered the demons like dust before my arrows?”
Her grace haunted him—her noble beauty, her luxuriant glow, like moonlight imprisoned in shadow. “She speaks to me in silence,” he said, “her image questions, ‘Why did you leave me, Rama, amidst the enemy?’ May her beauty, untouched by filth or fear, endure till I conquer the underworld of rakshasas. She dwells now like a forlorn lotus, guarded by demons, though her place is by the prince of Ayodhya, wife of the scion of Dasaratha. Her presence, slender and serene, still gleams through the darkness like the winter moon bursting through clouds.”
“Perhaps fasting has rendered her form more delicate still,” he mused. “But let my wrath find its form in the flight of arrows, and tear open Ravana’s pride-stuffed chest. Sita, chaste and divine, has been forced to endure torment beneath cruel conditions. The grief of her separation may one day be discarded like a worn garment—but when, Lakshmana, when?”
As the sun sank beneath the western horizon, its light retreating like hope from a wounded soul, Rama’s mind, heavy with sorrow, was drowned in dusk. Lakshmana, ever steadfast, sought to lift his brother’s spirits, and together they offered sacred oblations to Aditya, the sun god.
Far away, in the darkened halls of Lanka, Ravana, son of Visravasu and king among demons, stood surveying the ruin left behind by Hanuman’s fiery trail. His face, noble once, now bore the shame of a proud citadel defiled. In counsel, he spoke, not with fury but with thought: “The son of Vayu has shattered our towers and sanctuaries. He has slain mighty warriors and turned joy to mourning. Noble ones, now is not the time for pride. Speak—what must be done? Suggest a course worthy of our cause and our kingdom.”
“O learned ones, o mighty warriors,” he urged, “know that wise counsel springs not from empty flattery, but from unity of minds. The scriptures say: there are three kinds of men—the best, who seek the good, devise proper plans, and draw strength from wise allies with divine blessing; the better, who plan and decide alone; and the inferior, who act in blind faith, abandoning discernment to fate, and earn no honour. So too are strategies divided—those rooted in tested reason and unity, those built by solitary thought, and those lost in discord, impractical and vain.”
“Now Rama, the warrior of boundless valour, prepares to invade this island, accompanied by his brother and the host of vanaras. Think well—he may dry the ocean with his might or cross it by means unknown. Once this simian race was our ally, now they march as foes. Consider deeply—what must we do to shield Lanka and her people?”
To these measured words, the demons responded not with wisdom but with sycophancy. “O Ravana, why do you fear?” they cried. “Our army is vast, armed with divine bows and blessed arrows. Your victories are unmatched—you have triumphed over the Nairitas, subdued Bhogavati, crushed the Yakshas, and humbled Kubera, the ally of Shiva himself. You brought down Maya, whose daughter Mandodari became your queen. You conquered Madhu, your sister’s husband, and seized the might of serpents—Vasuki, Takshaka, Sankha, and Jatini.”
“You laid siege to the abyss, fought and subdued the Kalakeyas, who bore Brahma’s boon of indestructibility. You mastered black magic and the hidden arts. Even the sons of Varuna fell before your army. Yamaloka itself trembled before you, and Yama fled your wrath. Earth once teemed with kshatriya kings whose brilliance outshone the sun—none could match you, and Rama is not of their kind. He is a mere mortal.”
Thus, they spoke, not to counsel but to flatter, seeking favour in empty praise. Their words, hollow as drums, lacked the substance of truth. The court of Ravana—will it awaken to true wisdom, or shall it sink further into the mire of vanity?
