When the demon-king Ravana received the report of the spy duo—Sarana and Shuka, whose lives had been spared by the gracious Rama—a dark cloud of anxiety gathered in his mind. Though his outward declarations were proud and thunderous, within, his thoughts were troubled and agitated. His heart, though sheathed in pride, could not ignore the awe-inspiring might of the Vanara legions commanded by Sugreeva, nor the righteous gravity that Rama’s name alone carried. Yet, in the pride of his demonic arrogance, Ravana exclaimed with heat, “Sarana, hear me! Even if the entirety of the cosmos were to rise against me, still I shall not surrender Sita, daughter of Janaka, to the son of Dasaratha. O gentle-hearted one! Your fear is born of the relentless harassment by those wild monkeys—you tremble, not out of reason, but from the pain and terror they have wrought upon you. And thus, you advise me to yield? Have you forgotten who I am? Who in battle can defeat me?” Though he spoke with harsh disdain, the words of Sarana hung heavy upon his spirit.
Restless, Ravana ascended to the summit of his towering palace. His eyes, red with fury, flared like twin fires, and his body trembled, as though aching for battle with the exiled prince. Accompanied by Sarana and Shuka, he cast his gaze toward the shores. What he beheld caused his heart to falter—a vast ocean of monkey warriors stretching far and wide, covering land and forest as though a second sea had arisen. Shock seized him, and he turned to Sarana: “Who are these formidable beings? Who are their leaders, their most venerated? Who among them charges with eagerness into battle? Tell me who commands Sugreeva’s trust and who bears authority over these clans. I must know them all.”
Thus bidden, Sarana began his narration with reverent gravity. “O King! That mighty Vanara surrounded by lakhs of roaring guards, issuing commands with gestures fierce and wild, whose voice shakes the very forests and valleys—he is Neela, chief of the army. He stands as the nerve centre of Sugreeva’s martial command. Behold the golden-hued titan, tall as a mountain, eyes ablaze, tail striking the earth—he is Prince Angada, grandson of Vali. He challenges you to duel, O King! In Sugreeva’s inner circle, Angada is cherished and trusted. Just as Indra once wielded Varuna’s might, Angada now carries the fury of Rama. It was he who, upon learning from Hanuman of Sita’s plight, devised this entire campaign and marched these hosts here.
Behind Angada stands Nala, the valiant engineer of the sea-bridge, the architect whose hands crafted the path across the ocean. His warriors—uncounted, fierce and loyal—hail from Chandanavana. Their swiftness is matched only by their devotion, and they now await the call to storm Lanka.
The silver-bodied legions led by Sweta—strong, cunning, and fervent—desire to breach the very palaces of Lanka’s elite. Swift as lightning, Sweta pierced the ranks, saluted Sugreeva, and vanished. His fame echoes through all three worlds.
Far away, upon Mount Ramya by the banks of Gomati, lies the green and fruitful realm of Pancharochana, where eternal spring reigns. From there comes Kumuda, a warrior of immense power, leading millions. His warriors are fierce, fearless, and bloodthirsty for battle. He burns with the desire to strike first.
Observe the dark-maned Vanara with a lion’s bearing—Rambha, lord of herds drawn from Vindhya, Krishnagiri, Sahya, and Sudarsana hills. These bold and savage warriors stare like embers through the mist of war, hungry for glory.
There, roaring like a lion, limbs gesturing madly, is Sarabha. Death holds no fear for him, and retreat is unknown. He commands wild and terrible hosts from Mount Salveya.
At the right corner, behold the Vihayas—one lakh forty thousand warriors of unmatched swiftness and ferocity. None can rival them in the fury of combat. Hear the thunderous voice of Panasa, echoing like a war-drum, a being whose commands are venerated even by gods. With a host of fifty lakhs, he governs warriors from Mount Pariyatra, moving not out of fear, but out of sacred loyalty.
Near the sea’s edge, walking as if a second mountain among waves, is Vinatha—flaming with resolve—ruler of all monkey clans between the Krishna and Kaveri rivers. His army numbers sixty lakhs—undaunted and undefeatable.
Krathanu, the great strategist, stands amidst his ranks, distributing his forces with precision. He is a master of tactics and cannot be overcome. Then comes Gavaya, whose strength gleams like metal. So confident is he, he urges his warriors to stand aside—he shall face Ravana alone. His seventy-lakh strong force possesses depth beyond measure.
Some warriors fight not for survival, but for Rama alone, caring naught for their own lives. Among them is Hara, a beast with a tail vast and colored, whose sheer size dwarfs even the elephant. The entirety of Sugreeva’s army lies beneath his command, eager for the conquest of Lanka.
Look now at the stormcloud-bodied Dhumra, the mighty bear with fiery gaze, dwelling on Rukahavantha by the Narmada. At his side is his brother Jambavantha, more potent yet. Reverent, noble, and undefeated in war, Jambavantha is peerless in wisdom and valor.
His troops move like shadows, hurling mountains, unafraid of death. Amidst them leaps Dhambha, shrieking and wild, known for aiding Indra himself in battle. Another, standing calm yet mighty, is Samvada, leaning upon a mountain’s edge as he directs his men. Born of Agni and Gandharva Mai, he is beyond defeat and revered even by the gods.
There too is Kradha, silent and potent, dwelling upon Mount Kailasa, beloved by Kubera and the mountain kings. He commands countless warriors, ready to sweep upon Lanka.
Pramadhi, floating like a dark monsoon cloud, leads seventy lakhs of troops from the Ganga caves. He tames wild elephants and has earned the respect of sages and kings. Dwelling on Mount Useerabeeja in Mandhara’s expanse, his valor rivals that of Indra himself.
On the western flank stands the colossal Pramadhi, whose courage is the stuff of legend. The first fearsome division that crossed the sea, black-faced and roaring, fifty lakhs strong, belongs to Gavaksha of the Golangu tribe. Their war cries eclipse the thunder of the heavens.
And there, a Vanara of blazing presence—Kesari—dwells on golden Mount Meru, watching even the Sun God encircle the summit. Meru, home to sixty thousand golden peaks, harbors within its heart one such hill ruled by Shatabali. This bold commander, devoted to Surya, leads one hundred lakh warriors, determined to win Lanka for Rama or perish in the effort.
Gaja, Gavaya, Gavaksha, Nala, and Neela—each leads forces numbering in crores. The Vindhya’s stealthy Vanara tribes are beyond count, swift as thought, and fierce as fire. Each warrior is a mountain in form and fury; their might could reduce Lanka’s walls to dust. Their assault shall be a tempest, devastating and divine.
Thus spoke Sarana, his voice woven with hope, not only to inform but to awaken wisdom in Ravana’s heart, to make him reconsider and avoid the fall of Lanka. Yet the strings of fate do not bend to mortal pleas, and the hearts of the proud rarely soften with counsel. What these words shall seed in Ravana’s mind remains to be seen—for destiny marches ever onward, indifferent to the warnings of the wise.
