In the dusky hush of Lanka’s dread-shadowed field, where sorrow clung like mist and silence groaned beneath the weight of grief, Soumithri, son of Sumitra, wise in word and firm in virtue, spake with measured thought upon the crooked ways of the world, the veiled intricacies of dharma, of wealth’s luring grasp, and the fleeting grip of mortal resolve. His words, bright like polished gems and grave as ancient law, struck the heart of Rama, stirring him from the dream-stupor of anguish and love, born of the false vision of Sita’s death—a cruel enchantment conjured by Indrajit to unseat the lion-hearted.
In that hour of stillness came Vibhishana, the garlanded one, bearer of honour and mountain of virtue, into the camp of grief. Four colossal guards flanked him, forms like walking peaks, limbs aglow with the sheen of heavenly strength. Around stood the champions of the simian host, their noble visages streaked with tears, hearts rent with fear, minds burdened with the question: shall untruth conquer dharma? Shall the tide of demon craft drown the cause of righteousness, and all this mighty force sink into despair?
Rama lay, his mighty frame dulled by sorrow, in the lap of Lakshmana, unconscious as a storm-stilled lion, tears coursing down his cheeks like rain upon a wilted lotus. Vibhishana, beholding the prince thus, spake with urgency: “What shadow lies upon him, noble Lakshmana?” And Lakshmana, in voice clear and sharp as the wind on mountain heights, replied, “O pure-hearted one, Hanuman brought grievous tidings: that Indrajit, in sight of all our vanaras, has slain Sita upon the field. At these words, Rama fell as if struck by Indra’s thunderbolt.”
But Vibhishana, rising in flame of thought, interrupted, “O King! The news Hanuman bore is like an ocean run dry—a seeming impossibility. Ravana would not slay Sita. Many times I implored him to return her, yet never did he heed. Neither by force, nor by trickery, nor by any means known to gods or men could she be brought to this field. What was seen was illusion—a hollow conjuring wrought by Indrajit’s dark art to cloud the minds of the vanaras. Know this: the son of Ravana now hastens to the dread altar of Nikumbhila, to perform a black rite that shall make him unconquerable, a terror to the three worlds. If the rite be completed, none shall stand before him, not even the mightiest gods. He intends, by enchantment, to cripple our forces with fear and thus complete his sacrifice.”
“Therefore, O Rama, cast off this grief—it is poison to your heart and flame to the demon’s fire. Your warriors falter at your sorrow. Rise and shine once more among them. Send Lakshmana forth, with Hanuman and Sugreeva and the wise Jambavan. I shall guide them, and with the fire of dharma, Lakshmana shall pierce the night. His arrows shall drink the blood of Indrajit like swans gliding toward a lake rich with lotus.”
Rama, shaken as a mountain struck by wind, still reeled in the tempest of grief. Yet, as Vibhishana’s words, bright with reason and noble flame, struck the core of his spirit, he looked round upon the vanara hosts and spake thus: “O King of Lanka, thy counsel is like cool water upon fire. Tell me again thy thought, for my mind was in darkness. As thou hast said, the army is posted in strategic array. The simian legions, set according to strength and skill, hold the lines for assault and defense. Yet my heart still weeps. Speak, if there be no cause for sorrow, and I shall believe.”
Then Vibhishana, steadfast and serene, replied, “O Rama, the grief thou nourishest is untruthful, forged by demon deceit. Let not thy sorrow give strength to the foe. If dharma be thy banner, then courage must be thy steed. Now hear me: to slay Indrajit, Lakshmana must depart with chosen warriors. The son of Ravana, blessed by Brahma, wields astras and steeds that no power may break. He seeks to bind his might with dark rites. If he succeeds, we are undone. Yet Brahma, in granting boon, declared: ‘He who interrupts thy rite before the fire is fed shall be thy doom.’ Let us strike now. If Indrajit falls, then Ravana too shall stagger to Yama’s gate.”
Rama answered, “O Vibhishana, I know the wicked skill of Ravana’s son. He wields the Brahmastra and commands the sky. His chariot hides like a storm cloud, swift as Aditya in his celestial march. He has defeated Indra and Varuna. He is a sorcerer beyond reckoning. Yet for this reason, let Lakshmana go—guided by thy wisdom, flanked by Sugreeva, Jambavan and Hanuman. Let the thunder of his arrows silence this illusion-born foe.”
Then rose Lakshmana, fair as a mountain flame, and took up his bow. He wore his armour like a second skin, placed the quiver upon his shoulder, and belted the sword to his side. Bowing at Rama’s feet, he said, “O brother, my arrows shall seek Indrajit as swans to the lotus pool. They shall cleave him limb from limb and bathe in the blood of deception.”
At these words, light shone once more in the camp, and the gloom receded. Blessed by Rama, Soumithri departed, his heart a flame of purpose, leading the chosen champions into the treacherous heart of Lanka. Guided by Vibhishana’s insight, his gaze keen and unerring, Lakshmana scanned the battlefield, where Ravana’s legions had built their stronghold. There rose banners of strange sigils and weapons crafted for cunning and death. The camp was a maze, its paths hidden like serpents in shadow.
But Lakshmana, steadfast as the northern star, pressed inward, his eye fixed upon the dread altar where Indrajit would come. Here, where darkness and strategy joined, where illusion danced with ritual and power waited to rise, he stood—poised, firm, serene. In that moment, all the virtues of dharma, all the strength of valour, all the brilliance of divine favour, gathered in him. And thus Soumithri, fire-hearted and god-guided, stood ready, an arrow drawn in the bow of righteousness.
