Mandodari, queen of the mighty, torn by grief and sorrow, stood beside the fallen titan, her voice choked with tears, her heart burning with loss. O valiant one! Thou who once adorned thyself with garlands of many hues and robed in silks finer than the breath of spring, who soared aloft in the Pushpaka chariot through celestial skies to Kailasa’s peak, to Mandara and Meru, and wandered amid the divine groves of Chaitraratha and Nandana, curious and joyous like a child among wonders—what splendour was thine! The world gave to thee all that it could, and joy danced always in thy steps. But now—alas! —by thy death, I am severed from all grace and grandeur, and the queen is reduced to but a withered shadow. The king’s wealth vanishes swifter than the scent of a breeze. O my lord, Nature fashioned thee in strength, thy brow bold, thy skin fair, thy nose shaped as though drawn by art divine, thy face cool as moonlight, lips crimson as the coral beneath the sea, thy crown dazzling, ears adorned with ancient elegance, thy eyes full of allure and laughter—how art thou now disfigured by Rama’s arrows, red with blood, limbs scattered, and thy glory dimmed?
Once did I walk beside thee as the consort of the unconquered, and now I am but a lone figure on the brink of madness. Born of the danava king, wedded to the lord of rakshasas, mother to the slayer of Indra—was not my pride justified? I lived beneath the aegis of mightiest arms, of valorous men famed in every corner of the world. How then hath this fate overtaken us—by the hand of a man?
Thou didst gleam, O king, like lightning among clouds, with gems ablaze and ornaments rich. But now thy form is pierced in every place with arrows, thine limbs bristle like the back of a porcupine, and I am forbidden to embrace thee, for there is no spot untouched by war’s fury. Thou liest fallen like a mountain smitten by Indra’s thunderbolt. Is this truth or some dream’s mocking echo? How didst thou, the terror of Death himself, yield unto Yama?
Thou who didst shake Kailasa’s roots and humbled Shiva, thou who shattered pride and stilled fame, who made the elements themselves tremble—thou didst live in thunder and dared the wrath of every realm. Thou didst smite giants, crush Yakshas, break through the rites of sages, ever for the sake of thy people. In war thou wast sorcerer and sovereign both, scorning the laws of righteousness, bringing women of myriad tribes into thy halls. To enemies, terror—to thy own, tender as spring rain. A master of the bow, a charioteer unequalled—what strength was thine! And I yet live while thou art dust—what mettle is mine made of?
O king, thou who once reclined upon couches of ivory and gold, why now in earth and ashes? The fall of Indrajit by Lakshmana’s hand was blow enough, and now this void deepens. If I am to live, it shall be only among shadows, without kin, without comfort. My lord, thou hast taken a path from which no return exists. Why dost thou not take me too? Must I linger in sorrow, abandoned and fragile? When I weep, why is thy voice silent? Have I come unveiled, walking by foot, without the dignity once demanded of queens—hast thou no wrath at this shame?
The women of thy house too have discarded their veils, drawn by sorrow beyond modesty—why speakest thou no word to them? Hast thou no affection for thy loyal entourage? Their tears rain upon thee. The chaste women thou once wronged, the innocent widowed by thy hand—their curses have returned to strike thee down. The tears of the virtuous have weight, and in thee they have found their mark.
Ravana, thou who conquered the three worlds, why didst thou stoop to steal the wife of another, and from the forest’s sanctity? That act, born of lust and deception, was thy undoing. Vibhishana, thy own blood, wise and true, warned thee. He said through Sita would come the doom of rakshasas—but lust sealed thy fate. The kingdom of demons stands now defenceless.
Great as thy courage was, fierce as thy battle might, thou shouldst not be mourned—but I, being woman, am overcome. Thou hast departed with thy store of merit and sin. I am left behind, adrift. Ten-headed king, thou didst scorn the counsel of well-wishers—my father, Maricha, Kumbhakarna, even I. Pride deafened thee, and strength made thee blind. And now, lying like a storm-cloud dressed in red silk, ornaments shattered, face to the earth, thou speakest no more.
O grandson of Malyavantha, dost thou not wake even now, when the sun’s first light pierces Lanka’s skies? Thy mace lies broken beside thee, no more a terror. Thou embraced the battlefield as a lover—and now ignore me? My heart must be foul indeed, for it has not broken yet seeing thee thus.
Mandodari, maddened by sorrow, poured forth this torrent of love, grief, memory, and reproach; her reason drowned in agony. She fell upon Ravana’s body like the twilight sun upon a storm-swept cloud—red, dimming, faint. Her attendants lifted her, their own eyes weeping, and sought to console her. One among them, wise and composed, spoke softly: “Devi, know you not that time consumes all? The wheel turns, and kings rise and fall like the tides.”
Seeing this heart-rending sight, Rama turned to Vibhishana and said, “Console these women, and make ready the rites for your brother’s end.” Vibhishana, torn between duty and revulsion, bowed and spoke, “Rama, my brother rejected Dharma, slew sages, chased women not his own, and lived in deceit. I am unfit to honour him, for he was my foe cloaked in kinship. Yet if I deny him his rites, I am cruel in the world’s eyes. If I perform them, they shall say I honoured the unrighteous.”
Rama, pleased by his inner struggle, addressed him thus, “Vibhishana, I too must do good to you who aided me in the impossible. Ravana may have forsaken virtue, but his strength, brilliance, and knowledge were matchless. Even gods and danavas quailed before him. Let not his last rites go undone. You must perform them, and your name shall shine for it.”
Then Vibhishana, hastening, prepared for the funeral. From Lanka, he fetched the sacred fire, the carts, the sandalwood, the camphor, the gems, the pearls. Scholars and sages gathered with him. Malyavantha, the ancient, joined. Silk-robed priests bearing tears and hymns placed Ravana in a golden palanquin, draped in flowers and flags of his realm, the chronicles of his lineage borne before him.
The palanquin was carried southward to the ground of flame. Four sacred fires were placed: Avahana, Garhapatya, Dakshina, Ahitagni, each in its rightful place. Around him, they lay the tools of yajna, the weapons he wielded, the sacred fig wood, the lotus flowers, the roots of vetiver.
As prescribed by ancient seers, the rites were performed, and Vibhishana set the pyre ablaze. He bathed, laid the final offerings of grass and water, and with folded hands, his head bowed, spoke a final prayer. The women, weeping and weary, completed their rites and returned to the palace.
Thus, the body of Ravana was returned to the elements.
Vibhishana came once more to Rama, humbly standing with hands joined. Rama, amid Sugreeva and his champions, stood resplendent, like Indra after the fall of Vritra. He now removed his weapons, laid aside his bow and arrows, and stood in tranquil grace.
The task was done. Ravana the mighty had fallen. The wheel of fate turned again. What destiny held next for Rama was yet to be revealed.
