The wicked Indrajit, son of the night-bound Ravana, driven by wrath and steeped in sorcery, abandoned the clash of arms and hastened to the dread altar of Nikumbhila to fortify himself with the power of dark rituals. As he departed, the field behind him thundered with the roars of demon warriors, their fury unleashed like a tempest upon the simian ranks.
Yet the valiant vanara hosts stood firm, repelling the blows with steadfast courage. Amidst the din and tumult, Rama, son of Dasharatha, heard the dreadful commotion and the clash of steel, and, discerning some fell turn of events, turned to the venerable Jambavan and spake: “O noble warrior of the bear-clan! From the heart of battle, I hear cries that shake the firmament—surely Hanuman hath wrought some deed beyond imagining.
Go forth with thy kin and lend him aid.” At once, the ancient Jambavan, lord of the Riksha race, set forth with his host towards the western gate, where Hanuman, the wind-born hero, held fast with his stalwart companions. The advance of the bear-troops spread across the field like blue rain-clouds fallen to earth.
Then did Hanuman behold Jambavan and counsel him to hold his force in reserve; himself, grief-stricken, he flew to Rama and fell before him with a heavy heart, saying: “O vanquisher of foes! In full sight of our warriors, Indrajit committed a vile deed—he slew Sita, the princess of Videha. My soul is unmoored, for I beheld her upon his chariot, lifeless, and was plunged into sorrow. I come to lay before thee this unspeakable sin, this accursed act of sorcery and illusion.”
At these words, Rama, God among men, fell like a tree cleft at the root, his golden frame cast upon the earth, and the vanara chiefs gathered about him in alarm. His face, like a fire none dare approach, burned with grief. They placed garlands of lotus upon him, and cooled his brow with waters, yet his sorrow blazed unquenched. Then Lakshmana, the steadfast, embraced him and spoke with words heavy in thought: “Arya, thou who tread the noble path with restraint and truth, what fruit has thy virtue borne?
See how the wicked flourish and the just are scourged! Trees and stones, beasts and men—these the eye perceives, but dharma and adharma elude all senses. They are spoken of, but not touched, imagined but not manifest. If dharma were truly sovereign, shouldst thou have fallen thus? And if adharma brings ruin, should not Ravana even now burn in hell’s pit? Yet lo! He sits enthroned in grandeur.
Thus does the world give lie to righteousness. When unrighteousness yields reward, men cast aside dharma; and if virtue led surely to joy, none would ever stray from its course. But lo! The unworthy prosper, while the virtuous fall prey to calamity. Who then can trust this invisible dharma?
The division between right and wrong grows hollow, for dharma kills not the sinful, nor shields the just. It is said adharma is self-consuming—yet what power has it shown to destroy evil? And what then of dharma, if it cannot restrain the wicked? Verily, no dharma, no adharma holds sway in this age.
When the gods themselves reward both good and evil, what meaning remains in law or rite? Did not Shukra himself declare the dark arts a form of virtue? Though ancient rites please the gods, those born of malice and deceit cannot be righteous.
And yet both flourish alike. Dharma is silent when the wicked rise and the just are struck down. When the foe is strong, shall we not strike, even by unrighteous means? This seems just, though the Vedas proclaim otherwise.
Yet the scriptures too affirm: only that which is selfless, gentle, and for the good of all bears worthy fruit. But who sees this? Dharma is unseen, its workings veiled, its presence doubted. That which is not seen—is it not as though it were not? How then shall virtue protect us, or distinguish friend from foe? O Rama! If dharma were real, wouldst thou not have remained unharmed? But look where thou now list.
Then how may we proclaim dharma as eternal and all-pervading? If it may be overthrown by brute strength and black magic, I renounce it. If dharma fails and leads to ruin, then it is a barren creed, a custom stripped of meaning. If the mighty cast it aside, then let us to abandon it, and turn to strength. O destroyer of foes! If truth be dharma, then why, when thy father promised thee the throne, did he not keep his word? And why didst thou not restrain him for breaking that sacred vow?
Even Indra, king of the gods, slew the righteous Viswarupa and yet performed a yajña. If yajña be dharma, he would not have slain the sage; if slaying be adharma, he would not have offered sacrifice. But he did both. Thus, kings, bound by time and fate, perform both right and wrong as needed. If we cleave to either dharma or adharma alone, destruction shall still find us.
They are but names, and both are wielded as the hour demands. Therefore, Rama, act as the moment calls. Thou didst forsake the throne, source of wealth and power, and now behold! Sita is gone, taken by vile hands. Wealth flows like rivers from mountains, fulfilling all desires; without it, even the great wither like dried streams in summer. He who casts aside wealth yet hopes to gain it again shall sink to sin.
The rich man hath many kin and countless friends. Wealth brings respect, honour, and repute. He is called wise, noble, and virtuous. O brave one! By discarding the kingdom, thou didst leave us bereft. This truth I must speak. A wealthy king, when endowed with vision, pride, virtue, restraint, and desire for growth, shall surely thrive. But virtue without power is like a moon shrouded by storm clouds—hidden and dim. Rama! Obedience to thy father’s word has cast us into forest, and now into grief. Sita, the light of thy soul, is lost. O mighty one! I shall avenge thee—I shall smite Indrajit, that foul wielder of illusion, and make him pay for his wickedness. O prince of boundless strength and fountain of dharma, know thy true Self, for thou art no mere man, but the soul of the universe.
Faultless thou art, yet made to suffer. But I shall call upon all our might, and bring down Lanka, that golden seat of evil. Thus, spake Lakshmana, son of Sumitra, unwavering in loyalty, wise in counsel, strong in restraint. Though his heart burned with wrath against Indrajit’s treachery, his words sought not to wound but to restore.
By invoking the familiar truths of the world—wealth, fate, and the fickle face of virtue—he endeavoured to steady Rama’s mind. For though he never doubted his brother’s strength, he knew the path to victory must be trod with both heart and hand. The discourse on dharma and adharma, though shaped by grief and borne of worldly anguish, echoed the confusion of mortal minds who see the wicked thrive and the just suffer—yet still, beyond that veil of despair, walked faith in Rama’s guidance, unshaken and serene.
