In the twilight of war, when the sky was thick with sorrow and the earth quaked beneath grief’s burden, King Sugreeva and his valiant host, mighty in arms and steadfast in loyalty, stood aghast, pierced by Indrajit’s cruel sorcery. Before them lay the sons of King Dasaratha, Rama and Lakshmana, on a bed of arrows, their lifeblood mingled with dust, their strength waning, yet life clinging faintly to their noble frames. Grief, like a thundercloud, enfolded the warriors, and they surrounded the brothers in mournful silence.
Though his body was struck and bound by a net of enchanted shafts, Rama’s spirit remained undimmed—his awareness undiminished, a testament to his mental might. His eyes, full of silent torment, beheld his dear Lakshmana—fallen, bleeding, insensate, as though consumed by the fire of agony. Rama, heartbroken, was cast into the darkness of despair, not as a king, but as a man stripped bare of royal pride. With tears unshed, he spoke thus in solitude of soul:
“Was I not to witness Lakshmana in the radiant joy of conquest? Yet fate has dealt me this ruinous vision—my brother breathing his last amidst blood and ruin. Without him, neither Sita nor life itself has worth to me. A Sita may be found in the wide world, rare though she be, but where shall I find a brother so loyal, so resolute as Lakshmana? If his breath departs, mine shall follow in the presence of these noble vanaras.”
“What word shall I send to Queen Kausalya, to Kaikeyi, or to Sumithra—the mother who waits with anxious love for her son’s return? What solace can I offer when the shadow of death silences her beloved? Kausalya’s heart shall break upon hearing it. How can I face Bharata and Shatrughna and tell them I return without him who was my right hand in exile? Sumithra’s eyes shall brand me with grief, for her son, guardian of my life in forest days, lies still and cold. Am I a bearer of sin?”
“O Lakshmana! In moments of doubt, you steadied my mind. When courage faltered, your voice gave it form. Now you lie silent—not for pride, not for anger—but because death holds your tongue. Upon this battlefield where demons once fell to your bow, you now lie pierced, bathed in your own blood, a crimson sun sinking in sorrow’s west. Your red gaze, though speechless, cries out in agony. You followed me into the wild—shall I not follow you now, to the doors of death?”
“Hero without wrath, soul of truth, you lived with restraint, never once falling to anger or vanity. Karthaveerya, with a thousand arms and five hundred arrows, could scarcely rival your prowess. You, who could deflect even the wrath of Indra, are brought low by a vile magician steeped in deception. My vow to see Vibhishana crowned lies in tatters, and the shame of broken word burns deep within me. History may now mark Rama—a king who faltered in oath and sullied his line’s noble name.”
“O Sugreeva, son of the sun-born Aditya, take your host across the ocean. Return to Kishkindha. When Ravana sees you gone, he may spare your lives. Angada and the others shall know peace. My gratitude is yours—Jambavan’s wisdom, Angada’s valor, Mainda and Dvivida’s gallantry, Kesari and Sampathi’s devotion, Gavaya, Gavaksha, Sharabha, and Gaja—all have earned my undying respect. You, my friend, are absolved of duty. Go now to your kingdom. Let this sorrow be mine alone.”
Even as Rama wept, tears welling like the Ganges in monsoon, the noble Vibhishana strode forth—his dark frame mistaken for the return of Indrajit, and the vanaras scattered like ships in a storm. Sugreeva, beholding the tumult, turned to Angada and spoke:
“What is this fear that strikes our kin, who once leapt through fire and water without dread? I see warriors throwing arms, abandoning comrades, leaping in panic. This is no common fight. Look closely, Angada—see the cause!”
The prince, voice choked with pain, replied, “Have you not seen Rama and Lakshmana, pierced, bleeding, laid among broken arrows like scattered wood? What strength remains to us when such heroes fall?”
Then Vibhishana, bearer of dharma and pride of Lanka, entered the camp. Sugreeva, discerning truth from illusion, called Jambavan to restore courage to the vanara ranks. The bear-king obeyed, announcing the presence of ally, not foe. Calm returned like a cool breeze after a storm.
Vibhishana, heavy-hearted, approached the wounded brothers. With water sanctified by mantras, he bathed their eyes and mourned the trickery that felled them. “O virtuous princes,” he whispered, “Indrajit, master of guile and sorcery, has undone you with spells dark as night. I placed my faith in your truth and might, yet now you lie defeated by deception.”
“I care not for Lanka’s throne. My war is against Ravana—he who scorns righteousness. The dream of evil has nearly triumphed—but I will not let it be. I shall stand by you.”
To this vow, Sugreeva replied, voice firm, “O friend of virtue, grieve not. Rama and Lakshmana do not perish today. They lie beneath the spell of naga-astras. Once freed, their wrath shall burn Lanka clean of vice. Be not dismayed—your kingship awaits, and righteousness shall reign.”
Turning to Sushena, wise healer and father of Tara, Sugreeva commanded, “Go swiftly to Kishkindha with the brothers and our bravest. There you shall find the herbs to awaken them. I shall face Ravana and bring back Sita, as Indra reclaimed Lakshmi from the depths of darkness.”
Sushena, humble and knowing, said, “Long ago, I saw the asura wars. Devas struck by hidden foes fell like stars in a storm, yet Brihaspati healed them with sacred herbs. Sampathi and Panasa know these remedies. Upon twin mountains—Drona and Chandra—lie Sanjeevakarani and Vishalyakarani. Let Hanuman, wind’s son, soar there and bring salvation.”
As they spoke, nature herself trembled. The seas roared, clouds clashed, and trees bowed to invisible hands. Then, with the blaze of a thousand suns, Garuda—son of Vinata, guardian of dharma—descended. The serpents fled, and their bindings crumbled. With a touch, he revived the princes. Their wounds vanished, their glow returned. Strength, memory, and brilliance rushed back like the tide.
Rama, overjoyed, said, “Who art thou, mighty one? In thy presence, I feel my father Dasaratha’s shade. Thy fragrance is divine. Thy form, wondrous. Speak thy name.”
Garuda replied, “I am thy outer spirit, Rama—thy friend eternal. When you were bound by the sons of Kadru, I flew to free you. You are destined to triumph. The demons shall fall before your virtue. Now let me return, for in time, you shall understand our bond. Spare the innocent, strike the wicked. Bring Sita home, and let Ayodhya rejoice.”
With these words, he vanished into the heavens.
The vanaras, their hearts ablaze with renewed purpose, roared like lions across Lanka. Their war cries echoed like thunder in Ravana’s palace. With clubs, boulders, and faith, they marched to strike the wicked low. Clouds of destiny gathered, storming to favor the righteous, and to wash away the pride of the deceitful.
Thus, did fate turn its wheel, balancing joy with sorrow, death with rebirth, despair with hope. And the tale of Rama marched forward—toward truth, toward triumph, and the eternal light.
