On the sacred heights of Mount Savela, Rama, scion of the Ikshvaku line and embodiment of virtue, set foot with his valiant brother Lakshmana. The mountain shone with a splendour of its own—its crags and slopes glimmering with minerals, radiant in the hues of sun-kissed stone. Addressing the noble Sugreeva, steadfast in loyalty, and Vibhishana, the sage of Lanka and paragon of wisdom, Rama spoke:
“Lo, this mountain is calm, vivid, and composed—its nature serene, its light divine. Let us pass the night in its sheltering embrace, for it kindles peace even in a warrior’s heart.”
Then Rama’s gaze turned afar, across the great gulf to the island kingdom of Lanka, suspended between earth and sky like a chariot of the heavens. He saw the strongholds of Ravana, the dark lord who had wrenched Sita from her ascetic repose in Janasthana and borne her away to this fortress of illusion.
“This land,” Rama spoke in rising fire, “harbours that unrighteous king whose deceit festers in every corner of this citadel. His mind, twisted by arrogance, has brought ruin upon the innocent. His sons are a curse to the land, his deeds a shadow cast upon all of Lanka. Time shall bear down upon him, and one among his own shall rise as the flame of destruction. The weight of Ravana’s sins shall not go unborn.”
But as he spoke thus, the gentle slopes and wondrous beauty of Suvela—its flowering ridges, fragrant winds, and untainted skies—drew his fury into stillness. His thoughts, like a stirred lake settling into clarity, found composure once more.
Behind him walked Lakshmana, vigilant and armed, eyes watchful, every sense alive. Knowing the dangers of enemy soil, he bore the burden of guarding his brother and the host of righteousness. Sugreeva, Vibhishana, and their ministers followed close behind.
Sugreeva ordered his captains to encircle their sacred leaders. At once came Hanuman of unmatched might, Angada the gallant, Neela the swift, and Mainda, Dvivida, Gaja, Gavaya, Sarabha, Gandhamadana, Panasa, Kumuda, Haru, Jambavan the wise, Sushena, Rishabha, Durmukha, Sathabali, and hosts of vanara warriors of great renown. Forming a living fortress, they guarded every flank, creating a bulwark of virtue around Rama.
From the high slopes, they beheld Lanka—an ethereal marvel of architecture rising like a dream between the ocean’s breath and the vault of sky. Its towers glistened like molten stars, and its walls, bristling with demons in armor, shimmered in the fading light. Dark-skinned, fierce-eyed, the rakshasas stood on ramparts, statues of war prepared to strike. The vanaras, unshaken, mocked their foes with cries and gestures, loud in their confidence, bold in spirit.
As day yielded to dusk, the sun cast a golden farewell upon the sea, and the moon ascended, gentle and cool, smiling upon the resting warriors. Rama, Lakshmana, Vibhishana, and Sugreeva found repose even in the land of the enemy, sheltered in the stillness of night.
The mountain breeze carried fragrances from the forests below—blossoms and fruits of champaka, ashoka, tamala, naga, and tala trees. Their scent stirred hearts with wonder: how had such a paradise come under the reign of cruelty?
The groves bloomed under moonlight, silver leaves glowing, creepers shining with otherworldly charm. The city rivalled Amaravati, abode of Indra, and its beauty whispered of forgotten blessings. Fruit-laden trees, buzzing bees, and waves kissing the shore joined in a hymn of natural delight.
Some vanaras, unable to restrain their curiosity, slipped into the gardens, marvelling at their purity and grace. Birds sang in the still air—cranes, cuckoos, and peacocks added their voices to nature’s lullaby. Pollen floated, soft as dreams, comforting the wanderers.
Stealthy scouts, with leave of their commanders, moved within the streets of Lanka, unseen by demon eyes. Elsewhere, vanaras stirred, shaking dust with thunderous feet, startling beasts of jungle and sky. Some soared above the trees, their movements echoing through the night.
Mount Trikuta rose like a divine peak, unreachable by mortal tread. Upon its heights stood Lanka, carved by Vishwakarma, master of celestial craft. Palaces of white marble shone like monsoon clouds before the storm. The city, grand as Kailasa, was guarded by fierce warriors as vigilant as Shiva’s hosts.
Rama marvelled at this wealth and splendour—so vast, yet possessed by the wicked. He pondered the mystery: how had such riches taken root in soil tainted by deceit?
The shrines, sanctuaries, gates, and homes were wrought in gem and gold. Warriors bore shields like molten suns, gleaming against the dark of night. Rama and his generals, standing at the edge of battle, studied all with calm eyes and resolute minds. Strategy formed like a tide rising—it was now to be shaped into one decisive
