In the vaulted halls of his golden court, Ravana, lord of Lanka, sat upon his throne, his heart swelling with the pride borne of hollow victories. The air was thick with flattery, each word a mirror to his vanity, reflecting his conquests over celestials, Gandharvas, danavas, ghosts, and serpents alike. Such was the delusion that surrounded him—courtiers, with words dipped in honey, drew hollow comparisons between mortal kings and the noble Rama, failing to discern the divine essence cloaked in human form. Even as noble ministers prepared to speak with wisdom, the mind of the demon king stood clouded, corrupted by praise and illusion.
To further stoke this tempest of pride, Prahastha, towering and dark as the monsoon cloud, arose with hands folded. “O invincible sovereign,” he proclaimed, “you, who have humbled gods and crushed serpents, why concern yourself with mere mortals? Hanuman’s reckless descent upon our city was born of overconfidence and illusion; he enchanted our eyes, and escaped only by fortune. Grant me leave, and I shall cleanse the earth of the monkey race. None shall remain—between ocean and mountain, I shall erase their trace. Let not this mischief trouble you. Sugreeva and his vanaras pose no threat beneath my might.”
Then came Durmukha, fierce-eyed and burning with rage. “My king,” he cried, “the insult of this monkey must not go unanswered. His intrusion and Sugreeva’s defiance demand vengeance, not patience. I shall descend this very moment and strike terror across the lands, from earth to the underworld. Even should they soar the skies, I shall bring them down and grind their bones beneath my feet.”
Following him, Vajradamstra, broad-shouldered and iron-handed, raised a massive pole and said, “Why speak of Hanuman, when Rama, Lakshmana, and Sugreeva—greater threats by far—breathe still? I shall face them alone, sow terror in their ranks, and return with their corpses before the day fades.”
Another rose with cunning in his voice, and said, “O King, strategy must guide our strength. Let us send warriors skilled in disguise to approach Rama as if from Bharata’s host, bearing tidings of alliance. As Rama welcomes them, let us fall upon him with hidden arms, while his trust blinds him. In this deception, we shall crush his simian host and sever his strength.”
Then Nikumbha, son of the mighty Kumbhakarna, declared, “Stay all your speeches—I alone shall end the mortal menace.” And rising with him, Vajrahanu, a demon massive as a mountain, thundered, “I shall devour the vanaras and break the backs of Rama and Lakshmana!”
One by one, the hosts of Ravana, each more dreadful than the last—Rabhasa, Suryaśatru, Suptagna, Yajnakopa, Mahaparshva, Mahodara, Durdharsha, Rashmiketu—arose, glittering with arms and shining like firebrands of doom. Indrajit, beloved son of Ravana, stood with them, alongside Prahastha, Virupaksha, Vajradamstra, Dhumraksha, Nikumbha, and Durmukha. They raised tridents, swords, bows, and maces, eager to strike down Hanuman and ravage the earth in wrath.
Yet amid this storm of arrogance stood Vibhishana, Ravana’s brother, wise, gentle, and luminous with the grace of heaven. He alone among them spoke with clarity, brushing aside the veil of pride. “O noble king,” he began, “war is but the final recourse. Before it, there lie the paths of conciliation, of gifts, and of division. Only when these fail should punishment rise. Victory does not favor those unaware, those abandoned by fortune, or those blind to danger. Rama is no common prince—he is resolute, alert, serene, and shines with divine grace. He has done you no wrong. It is you who invited ruin by seizing Sita from her forest dwelling, where Khara, slain for his wickedness, had fallen before Rama’s bow.”
He paused, then spoke solemnly, “Hanuman crossed the vast ocean, a feat no mortal could dare. He came, beheld Lanka, and left unharmed. Shall we not consider what power enables such a being? Shall we not weigh the strength of their cause and our peril? Return Sita, and end this growing tide of destruction. This fire that licks at our gates is born of your desire—quench it while you may. Rama is no man to be mocked; his arrows gleam like the winter sun and fly with death. Do not let pride consume Lanka, her elephants, her steeds, and her golden towers. Let not her glory turn to ash.”
“Give back Sita, and save your people. Dismiss the wrath that devours wisdom, peace, and life. Embrace duty, that your name may yet rise in honour. Let us dwell in joy among our families. Ravana, my brother, you are dear to me as soul to form—heed my counsel, and let truth prevail.”
Ravana, king of demons, sat silent and listened. Without word or sign, he rose and departed to the solitude of his palace. The court behind him lay split—as if by thunder—between empty boasts and earnest wisdom. One half soared on wings of delusion, eager to please their lord with splendid lies. The other half, embodied by Vibhishana, stood grounded in truth and driven by love for the land.
Gifted by the Creator with immortality unasked, Vibhishana stood as the conscience of the demon race, a lone light in the growing dark. His counsel, sincere and faultless, might yet tip the balance between demons and men. But fate moves by deeper rhythms. Whether Ravana heeds or turns away, the wheel of destiny turns, seeking its balance in the cosmic scale—and the hour of decision draws nigh.
