Though Kumbhakarna’s counsel was laced with a tone of loyalty, his opening words bore the mark of bold correction—words that stung Ravana’s pride and stirred within him a tempest of rage. The demon king, uneasy and brimming with wounded ego, rode the steeds of selfishness and delusion, spurred on by a vengeance-fuelled heart. Even in the twilight of life and death, he refused to acknowledge his grievous transgression. Knowing this well, many among his counsellors chose not the path of truth, but of pleasing flattery—words lacking in both virtue and moral compass.
Then rose the mighty marshal of Lanka—Mahaparsva—his frame resolute, his palms folded in feigned reverence, and his words as savage as they were sly. With a metaphor befitting his stature, he spoke: “O King! A fool he must be, who, after braving a treacherous forest rife with serpents and savage beasts, stumbles upon a hive of fragrant honey and leaves it untouched. O Ravana, destroyer of foes! Thou art the sovereign supreme—who among gods or men can command thee? Place thy foot upon Sita and declare her thy queen. Even a rooster humbles the hen through sheer dominance; why then shouldst thou, a warrior none can defeat, be halted by a mortal woman’s scorn? Should any consequence arise, let it be met with arms—we three, I, Indrajit, and Kumbhakarna, are prepared for war. Even the thousand-eyed Indra shall flee before us. To gain one’s aim, one may use conciliation, gifts, division, or force. O King! Let us strike down thy foes without delay.”
These twisted words, though bereft of wisdom, found root in the heart of the demon lord. He approved the suggestion and, stirred by memory, revealed a long-buried truth. “Mahaparsva,” he said gravely, “in ancient days, I once encountered the celestial maiden Punjikastala—radiant like flame. I seized her in lustful wrath. She fled to Brahma, who cursed me thus: Shouldst thou ever lay hand upon a woman without her will, that moment shall mark thy end. Since that curse, I have not dared to touch a woman unbidden. Therefore, I have pleaded, coaxed, and threatened Sita—yet she scorns me like straw beneath the foot.”
With grim pride, he added, “My speed matches the ocean’s fury, my movement the breath of Vayu. Rama knows not whom he challenges—he rouses a sleeping lion, awakens the silent Lord of Death. My arrows, like forked serpents, shall pursue him and drag him to ruin. When I take to battle, my volleys shall harass him as torches disturb the mad elephant. As the sun outshines the stars, my forces shall eclipse his glory. Neither Indra with his thousand eyes nor Varuna of the depths could prevail over me. Once, Lanka was Kubera’s; I seized it by force. I shall not yield.”
But in that council of chaos, one voice alone bore the mark of nobility—Vibhishana, steadfast and wise, arose with words not sweet but true. “O King,” he declared, “Sita is no mere woman; she is a serpent coiled about thy neck. Her smile conceals venom, her limbs are hidden hoods, and grief is the poison she brings. Her fingers are fangs in disguise, and her breath coils like smoke to strangle thee. Her very presence invites ruin, for the vanaras who rise against us wield power beyond reckoning. Rama, whose arrows rival Indra’s thunder and Vayu’s wind, shall not rest till justice is done. Give her back, O Ravana, before the storm descends. When Rama reaches Lanka, heads of mighty warriors shall fall like ripe fruit from the bough.”
He continued, undeterred by scorn, “Neither Kumbhakarna, nor Indrajit, nor Mahaparsva, Nikumbha, Kumbha, Atikaya—none shall endure Rama’s wrath. Even if the sun and moon guard thee, and Maruts stand watch, if Indra and Yama come to thy aid—Rama shall not be restrained. If thou seek refuge in sky or netherworld, still shall his arrows find thee.”
But Prahastha, loyal yet blinded by pride, rose in interruption. “Fear,” he scoffed, “is unknown to us. The gods, demons, Gandharvas, birds, serpents—all tremble before us. What power has a mere mortal prince against us?”
Vibhishana’s reply was firm, unshaken: “Prahastha, your pride is hollow. Rama, the scion of Ikshvaku, is virtue incarnate—master of self, wielder of dharma. You speak of valor, yet only because his arrows have not yet pierced you. When they do, none among us shall stand. Rama is no mortal—he is a tempest robed in human flesh. You name the mightiest—Trisirsha, Kumbhakarna, Nikumbha, Indrajit, Devantaka, Narantaka, Atikaya, Akampana—none shall survive him.”
He turned again to the king. “Ravana is a slave to passion—sharp-witted but reckless, blind to the doom he invites. You, his counselors, flatter him like foes disguised as friends. You led our race to ruin. This king is ensnared in the coils of a thousand-hooded serpent. If you love him, save him—even if it means opposing him. When a king falls into darkness, his ministers must wield their power to rescue him, even against his will.”
In a voice heavy with sorrow, Vibhishana concluded: “Our king is sinking into Rama’s Ocean—a tide that pulls with godly force. For the safety of Lanka, for the welfare of our kind, and the salvation of Ravana himself, I say again—return Sita. The true minister is he who weighs the strength of the foe, chooses the righteous path, and speaks not what pleases but what saves. The fruit of this counsel must be pondered well. But alas, the current of fate flows ever toward death, and its pull now claims the minds of demons and king alike. This shadow of doom looms large in my heart. How destiny, ever just, shall preserve the pure—that remains to be seen.”
