Markandeya spoke in calm precision, his voice flowing like a slow river through the centuries, recounting how the turning of destiny stirred the lives of men and beasts alike, and how from each tide of fortune arose lessons for ages to come. When Vali fell in battle, the valiant Sugreeva was anointed as Lord of the Vanaras, inheriting both the realm and the treasures once guarded by his brother—gains won through their joint exertion and the favour of Rama. With folded hands, Sugreeva bowed before Rama and spoke with reverence: “O noble prince, the time is unfit for travel. The heat of the waning summer yields to the gathering rains. The mountains are shrouded in cloud and the paths dissolve into torrents. When the rains have passed, I shall send forth my hosts to seek your queen.” He then arranged a dwelling for Rama and Lakshmana upon the gentle slopes of Mount Malyavanta and departed for Kishkindha.
Soon the air grew cool, and the clouds thickened like herds of mighty elephants. They rolled across the heavens, rumbling as lion-cubs, their bellies flashing with lightning, their hues shifting like the peacock’s tail in delight. The firmament, under Varuna’s sovereign command, seemed a treasure-house of life, waiting to pour its bounty upon the world.
Far away, in Lanka’s guarded groves, Sita languished in the Ashoka garden, her form frail as a vine upon a stone. Her breath was but a sigh of Rama’s name, her spirit nourished by remembrance alone. Around her stood the dreadful demonesses—Thryakshi, Lalatakshi, Deerghajihvi, Ekapada, Trijata, and others of fearful visage—who harassed her with shrill cries and foul mockery. They brayed like donkeys, hooted like owls, and wailed like jackals, their noise a constant torment. Yet Sita, pale and steadfast, said to them, “O cruel ones, if my death pleases you, strike me now. My heart is filled with Rama; in it there is no room for another.”
The guards, failing to shake her resolve, went before Ravana and complained. Among them Trijata, gentle and aged, turned to Sita and spoke with compassion: “O lady of lotus face, I bring tidings to ease your sorrow. An old sage among us, Vindhya by name, who wishes your welfare, bade me console you. Rama and Lakshmana live. They have befriended the Vanara king Sugreeva and will come to break your bondage. Fear not Ravana’s touch. Once he wronged Rambha, the celestial nymph, and was cursed by Kubera’s son that never again would he violate a woman by force. The end of his might draws near, for I have seen it in a dream.
“In that vision, Ravana rode southward on a chariot drawn by donkeys, his hair unkempt, his ten heads wild with frenzy. Around him ran Kumbhakarna and his hordes, ragged and blood-stained, fleeing toward Yama’s gates. Then I beheld Rama radiant as the morning sun, seated on a royal elephant beside Lakshmana, the air bright with his glory. He ate sweet rice mixed with honey, an omen of victory and reunion. I saw you, O Sita of steadfast heart, though wounded by a tiger, walking northward unshaken. Be comforted, for your deliverance is near.”
Trijata’s words were a balm to Sita’s soul. But Ravana, consumed by desire, came again to the garden. Draped in silks, adorned with gems that shone like fire, he advanced toward her like Rahu eclipsing the moon. “O Sita,” he said softly, “your beauty enslaves me. Why dwell in sorrow? Accept me, and you shall rule beside me, mistress of my wealth and queen of all worlds. Rama is but a wandering mortal, exiled and bereft, living in the forests. I am the lord of Daityas, Danavas, and Yakshas; Kubera himself is my brother, and Brahma’s blood runs in my veins. Look upon your fortune and rejoice.”
Then Sita, averting her gaze, plucked a straw and placed it before her as token of disdain. “O Ravana,” she said, “what misery is yours! I am the wife of Rama, bound to him in heart and dharma. You speak of greatness, yet know not righteousness. Without virtue, your lineage is but dust. Cease this folly, lest ruin claim you.” Covering her face in grief, she turned away. Ravana, his pride wounded, hurled vile words and departed in wrath, leaving her to the watch of the demonesses.
Markandeya, speaking to Yudhishthira as once Vysampayana had told, continued: Rama abode through the rains upon Mount Malyavanta, each day stretching into an age beneath the weight of longing. The world bloomed in freshness—the rain-fed creepers glistened, the leaves trembled under pearls of water, the air filled with the song of the koel and the flight of bright-winged birds. Yet to Rama, even beauty was a torment, for every blossom recalled Sita’s smile. When autumn came and the moonlight caressed the lotuses, his heart ached as though touched by her unseen hand.
At last he turned to Lakshmana and said, “You have seen Sugreeva’s nature. He revels in pleasure, forgetting his vow. We slew his foe and placed the crown upon his head; now he neglects his promise. Go to Kishkindha. If he still delays, punish him as I punished Vali.” Lakshmana, bearing bow and arrow, went forth swiftly. When Sugreeva heard of his approach, he trembled in fear, but hastened to greet him with humility. “O noble one,” said he, “I have not been idle. I have sent my hosts to the four quarters of the earth—over seas, through forests and mountains—to seek Sita. They are to return within the month; only five days remain. Soon, news shall reach us.”
Pleased by his words, Lakshmana returned with him to Rama. And so it came to pass that the northern, eastern, and western bands returned without tidings, leaving all hope upon the southern host. Thus did Sugreeva prove his faith and courage, dispelling Rama’s doubts, and the tide of destiny rolled on toward the great search for Sita, where fate and valour would meet beneath the sun.
