In the aftermath of battle, when the noble sons of Raghu lay strewn among the fallen — amid lifeless vanaras and vanquished rakshasas — a tremor of desolation seized the heart of Sita. Her gaze, shadowed by disbelief, fell upon the motionless forms of Rama and Lakshmana. How could such lions among men, bearers of virtue and flame of dharma, fall prey to the treachery of a deceitful demon?
A thousand questions, unbidden and unanswered, surged through her mind. Could the indomitable Lakshmana, high-souled and peerless in skill, fall to a mere trick? Could such a calamity touch Rama — he who was destiny’s flame? Had the stars lied? Were the declarations of astrologers and seers, who once foretold a life of auspicious union, proven false? Those who read the lines of her palm and saw longevity, strength, and harmony — had they erred?
Once, they had proclaimed: “Thou art queen to a king of righteousness, destined to perform yajnas and rituals by his side.” And now, he lies among the slain. What truth remains in those sacred words when the king himself is fallen?
The lotus signs upon her soles, said to be anointed by kings, once marked her for prosperity. But where had their promise gone? She, whose destiny was entwined with her lord’s, now trembled in the twilight of shattered faith. The sacred sciences — palmistry, physiognomy, the reading of skull and fate — all had promised her joy, family, a life long and secure at her consort’s side. Yet with a single cruel turn of time, all was torn asunder.
The princes, whose might had crossed the vast ocean, who had dared the forests of Janasthana and the fury of rakshasas, now lay fallen in battle. Could such valor end in defeat? Did fate mock them, leading them across seven mighty seas only to fall in a shallow pond of treachery?
They were the wielders of celestial weaponry — the Varuna-astra, Agneya, Indra, Vayavya, even the Brahmasira itself. What spell or deceit had rendered these divine arms powerless? Sita’s soul shook with grief. Her protectors, her eternal warriors — bested not by strength, but by guile.
Even the cosmos cannot defy the iron clasp of Time. The fall of Rama and Lakshmana revealed a truth immutable: no might, however great, can outpace fate. Her concern reached not for herself, nor even for her mother, but for Kausalya, whose every breath counted the days to Rama’s return. That noble queen, veiled in hope and aged in longing — what would become of her?
To this storm of sorrow came Trijata, kind and faithful among demonesses. She laid a gentle hand upon Sita’s trembling form and said: “O Devi, still thy lament. Thy husband and his brother are not lost to death. Mark my words with care: had Rama indeed perished, the host that surrounds him would not bear faces so full of fire. Their wrath is not born of grief, but of fury at a wound yet curable.”
She continued, “If Rama were no more, this chariot of heaven — the Pushpaka — would not carry thee without thy completing his last rites. No army led by a dead king remains whole in will. They falter, as ships without rudders. But lo, these vanaras are fearless. Their eyes do not carry despair. Thy virtue, thy chastity, thy unwavering dharma — these shield the princes. Trust, O Sita, for my words are not clouds without rain.”
“I have never uttered falsehood,” said Trijata, “and I shall not begin now. Even gods and demons led by Indra cannot subdue thy husband and his brother. They may have been struck down, but the light within them endures — their countenances beam still, bright as the unsetting sun.”
Her heart trembled between belief and doubt, between the echo of loss and the whisper of hope. Sita was swiftly taken back to Ashoka Vatika, where the trees, in their green array, offered shade but not solace. Her spirit wavered — hope and despair, faith and fear, god’s will and mortal ruin intermingled within her.
Meanwhile, Sugreeva and the vanara warriors, bound by Rama’s fall, stood in stunned silence. Grief and dread laced the air. Yet Rama stirred. By sheer force of soul, he awakened, and his eyes sought Lakshmana. There he lay — drained, breathless, blood-stained — a hero struck down.
Rama’s voice broke with sorrow. “I was to embrace my brother after victory, but if he is no more — what joy remains in Sita or in life? Many women may be found in the world, but a brother such as Lakshmana — there is none like him. If he departs, I too shall renounce my life, before these vanaras who witnessed his devotion.”
“How shall I face Sumitra,” he whispered, “when I return without her son? What words shall I offer to Bharata, to whom Lakshmana was a shadow and shield? I am the sinner — for my quarrel, he lies thus.”
He approached the still body. “Lakshmana,” he said, “when my mind faltered, you gave it steel. When demons raged, you cast them down. And now, you speak not, though your eyes say all. You, who once burned with wrath in battle, now lie like the setting sun — radiant, yet fallen.”
“My vow to crown Vibhishana remains unfulfilled. My promise falters. My honor burns.”
Then, turning to Sugreeva, he said, “O King of the vanaras, go now — take Angada and the brave ones and cross the sea again. I shall not hold you. The gods have made their decree, and you have fulfilled your dharma.”
Even as Rama spoke, his despair darkened the sky of the warriors’ hearts. All wept. Yet through this shadow came Vibhishana, firm in hand and fierce in purpose. He returned to the fallen brothers, mace in grip, eyes ablaze. His form, dark as thunderclouds, struck fear into the vanaras who mistook him for Indrajit.
But fate, relentless and silent, had woven its design. For Ravana, blessed with boons, could not be slain by gods, birds, serpents, sages, or demons — only by men and beasts. Thus, in the despair of Rama, in the valor of vanaras, in the grieving heart of Sita, the wheel of destiny turned without flaw — toward the demon king’s final fall.
