The noble utterance of Rama, that enmity ends with death, is a truth simple yet supreme, destined to echo through the corridors of time. Relationships born of this venomous seed of hatred persist through generations, laying the foundation for division and ruin among families, clans, and races.
Yet in that one luminous truth lies the law of peace and the thread of harmony that binds kin, societies, and realms. The sages and chiefs who stood around Rama, whose hearts were steeped in wisdom and valour, grasped this principle with clarity. Even as the flame of wrath was doused by death, there arose another tempest in the women of Lanka.
From the palace of Ravana, those once adorned in grandeur came forth in tears, sobbing as they made their way to the field of ruin. Through the northern gate they advanced, guided and guarded by asura warriors, yet their steps faltered as those of cows bereft of calves, their cries echoing like flutes of anguish.
One cried, “Where is my son?” Another, “My husband, where are you?” Yet another, “My beloved, speak to me!” But none answered. The battlefield bore no sound but silence, save for the weeping that rose with the wind. There lay heaped the broken bodies of the slain—limbs dismembered, torsos strewn, a dreadful sea of blood and shattered forms. Through this mire of crimson and decay they wandered, hope fluttering feebly in their breasts, seeking amidst the carnage a familiar face, a beloved form.
Tears filled their eyes like streams bursting from the hills, and their cries matched the trumpet of she-elephants mourning their fallen mates, consumed by fire in a distant forest. Some found heads cradled in their laps, others trunks mangled, some embraced the lifeless necks, while others fell upon the shattered chests of the slain, their grief inconsolable. Amidst them, the women of Ravana beheld a towering form dark as charcoal and vast in its expanse—there lay Ravana, the king of demons, his heads severed, his ornaments in disarray, yet majesty clung to his fallen frame.
Like creepers uprooted, they trembled around him, one embracing his broad chest, another kissing his feet, yet another clinging to his neck, her sobs falling like rain upon his brow. Though death had claimed him, his face retained its glory, his limbs their pride, as if life itself hesitated to depart. One laid his head upon her lap, and her tears streamed like molten pearls upon a lotus—such was the devotion and desolation intermingled.
Then came voices, murmuring thoughts aloud, questioning the justice of fate. “You who struck fear in Indra and Yama, you who cast shadows over the minds of sages, Gandharvas, and Devas—now lie humbled and still. No demon, serpent, god, or ghost could conquer you—but now a man has.
The vanquisher of devas, danavas, and rakshasas has fallen to one who walks upon earth. See, the hosts of yakshas, kinnaras, and devils have perished by his hand.” Among these mourners were women of celestial descent who had chosen Ravana for his might and grandeur.
They cried, “You spurned good counsel and stole Sita, sealing our doom. You slew the wise who warned you, thus inviting this ruin. Vibhishana, your own brother, spoke for your good, but your pride made his wisdom a crime. Had you returned the Princess of Mithila, none of this would have come to pass. Rama would have been your ally, and Lanka would not be veiled in mourning. By imprisoning Sita, you struck yourself, your kindred, and us with the triple curse of loss. O King of strength, it was not lust alone that brought your fall, but fate’s cold disdain.
The death of demons and monkeys alike in this great battle was ordained by the unseen hand. No wealth, no desire, no command can alter the fruit of action once sown. The women mourned like birds bereft of their mate. Then came Mandodari, queen among queens, her beauty veiled in tears, her steps faltering near the lifeless form of her lord. She beheld with horror the once-invincible Ravana brought low. Her words, born of pain yet bathed in wisdom, poured forth.
“O hero of sinewed arms, brother to Kubera, you whose anger made even Indra tremble, whose might drove sages and celestial beings to flee—has it come to this? You, conqueror of three worlds, resplendent in your unchallenged dominion, are slain by one who dwells in forests? This realm, inaccessible to mortals, has been penetrated, and you, armed with every gift, have fallen to a man’s hand.
Is this true? Is this fate? I heard in Janasthana that Khara and Dushana met their end at Rama’s hand—then I knew he was no ordinary man. When Hanuman entered Lanka and unleashed his strength, my heart wavered. And when Rama crossed the ocean upon a bridge of stones, I knew this was no mere mortal.
Perhaps Yama himself took Rama’s form. Or perhaps the celestials, in the guise of vanaras, assisted Vishnu, shining like the sun, to restore dharma. O king, I believe now that Rama is not bound by time. He is eternal, formless, beyond Brahma, beyond Rudra, the bearer of conch, discus, and mace. Upon his chest shines the mark of Srivatsa; his consort is Lakshmi herself.
He is the lord of all wealth, all worlds, consistent and unconquered. In ancient days, you ruled your senses and earned boons through fierce penance. But in time, your senses ruled you, and vengeance led your steps to ruin. I entreated you—tie the bond of peace with Rama—but your rejection has brought us here. The lust that bloomed in your heart for Sita has consumed your kingdom, your kin, and yourself. O mighty one, you wronged a woman worthy of reverence greater than Arundhati or Rohini. You stole her from the forest, deceived her, and insulted her dignity.
Her chastity alone could have turned you to ash—why it did not, perhaps even Indra and Agni dared not act until fate ripened. She, whose tolerance surpasses the earth, whose splendour exceeds even Lakshmi, was condemned by your desire. There are countless women fairer than Sita in your harem—but blinded by passion, you failed to see. I, by beauty, wisdom, lineage, and grace, surpass her—but your ignorance shut your eyes.
You brought the noose of death from afar, and now Sita walks free while you lie still. Her spirit shall now dwell in joy, while Lanka mourns. My words, born of sorrow, mark my wisdom. For I am the daughter of Maya, master of illusion, and Hema, a celestial nymph. Though I understand the weavings of fate, my grief is boundless. The tale is not yet done—more shall unfold in the great theatre of time, for the balance of cosmos must be restored.”
