Though his spies returned with truth, revealing the divine might and noble lineage of each monkey warrior stationed at Lanka’s borders, Ravana, the ten-headed king, sat in the shadows of unrest. He knew now in the depths of his cunning heart that these were no ordinary foes. Born of gods, gifted with celestial strength, the simian host was unlike any army he had faced.
But pride clouds even the eyes of wisdom. The demon king had earlier scoffed at the divine support behind Rama’s forces, treating it as mere straw scattered in the wind. Even the fiery display of Hanuman—son of Vayu, who had leapt the ocean, burned his city, and roared defiance—had failed to awaken true fear in his heart. Yet now, as fate pressed upon his fortress, the weight of his enemy’s righteousness began to trouble him.
Still bound by demonic resolve, Ravana gathered himself and called for counsel. “Let all ministers, captains, and warriors assemble with minds sharpened,” he declared. And so, they came, shadows in armour, crowding the court of the demon-lord.
To them, he spoke not of repentance or wisdom but deceit. He laid out a vile design, one rooted in illusion and cruelty. None dared question him, for who among demons would defy their sovereign? They praised his name, cried “Victory to the king!” and departed to prepare for his dark command.
With swollen pride, Ravana returned to his chambers, conceiving his next move. He summoned a master of trickery, steeped in illusion, whose black arts could shape dreams and lies into tangible horror. To him, Ravana gave a wicked task: to fashion the head of Rama—bleeding, lifeless—along with his divine bow and arrows, forged in exact likeness.
The demon conjurer obeyed. With spells and chants, he wove the illusion and presented it to the king, who rewarded him with a jewel of rare gleam. Now armed with deceit, Ravana strode into the Ashoka grove where Sita, the pure daughter of Janaka, sat on the earth, grief-struck, head bowed, thinking of her beloved Rama.
Surrounded by fierce demonesses with weapons at the ready, Sita was yet untouched in soul. Ravana approached, his voice like thunder cloaked in mock sorrow.
“O Sita,” he cried, “how long shall you cling to a hope that has perished? I offered you the wealth of the three worlds, asked you to reign beside me, but you chose to scorn me. Your Rama, your hero—he is no more! In the stillness of night, while his army lay in deep slumber, my fierce general Prahastha struck. Our demons, with tridents and swords, fell upon them. Rama’s head was severed; his bow, shattered.”
He beckoned the conjurer’s creation forward. Before Sita, they placed the false, bleeding head of her lord and his divine weapons—broken, lifeless. The earth spun beneath her as she stared, breathless, unable to speak. Ravana continued, with venom in each word:
“Lakshmana has fled, the monkey chiefs are slain—Sugreeva strangled, Hanuman crushed, Jambavan buried, Angada torn apart. The mighty simians lie trampled beneath our elephants, their bodies cast into the ocean, food for its beasts. The battle is over. Your husband lies here. Behold him, woman of foolish hope!”
Sita trembled, but her heart clung to truth like flame to wick. Yet Ravana pressed on, mad with arrogance:
“Accept your fate. Be queen of Lanka, and reign at my side. Forsake your dead Rama—his virtue has failed; his strength lies in ruin. What virtue remains in grief?”
The demon king, anxious yet blind to his folly, mistook cruelty for conquest. He could not see that virtue, though veiled by sorrow, stood unbroken in the heart of Sita, the wife of Rama, scion of dharma. And thus, fate, ever the weaver of justice, watched in silence as deception played its hour.
