Amidst the golden halls of Lanka, the demon king stood, his wrath hissing like a serpent provoked, his pride wounded, his ego aflame. Like a bird with torn wings, he fluttered in restless fury, yet sought to veil his tempest beneath a shroud of feigned gentleness. His lips, though shaped in a semblance of kindness, could not conceal the lurking shadows of his demonic soul.
With crude and bitter words, his true nature leapt forth, betraying the darkness within. “Women, when finding one who pleads,” he snarled, “tighten their grip with greater resolve, spurning gentle courtesies. My love for thee, O Sita, restrains my fury, much like a horseman checks his galloping steeds with a firm bridle. My heart, though steeped in desire, finds itself shackled by pity and longing. Thou oldest Rama, that mendicant prince, in undue reverence! Verily, thou deservest chastisement, yet my hands falter in harshness.”
Each word from Sita’s lips was a dagger to his pride, a summons to cruelty. He trembled, suppressing his rage, yet at moments, his barbaric heart peered through the veil. Insulted, inflamed, he turned to leave, his dark visage a storm cloud, his form brimming with menace. “Two moons hence, thou shalt yield to me, or else become but a tasteless morsel for my guards,” he thundered.
The women of his court, witnessing his savage decree, wept in silent dread. The celestial hosts, too, stirred in alarm as danger loomed over the chaste queen. The demonesses, fearing for her, beckoned her to silence, yet Sita, unshaken, gathered her fortitude.
“There is none to dissuade thee from this folly,” she spoke, her voice like a thunderous chime. “No wise counsel guides thee away from ruin. I am the consort of Rama, as Sachi Devi is to Indra. My lord is a blazing fire of virtue, and I am but a part of his divine flame. In all creation, none save thee, O wretched demon, would dare entertain such sinful desires. Thy wicked thoughts are but thy doom, for they weave the cords of thy destruction! Thou dreamiest of vanquishing Rama, but such folly is as a hare contending with a lion.
Coward! Thou stealest me away in deceit, yet fearest to face my lord in battle. Thy vile eyes should fall to the dust in shame! Dost thou not tremble before my chastity, which could consume thee in its righteous flames? Yet, bound by the laws of dharma, I act not without my lord’s consent. Thou claimest strength and kinship with Kubera, yet thou didst banish Rama and Lakshmana to seize me. Is this not the mark of craven treachery?”
At her scorn, Ravana quaked, his fury seething like a viper coiled to strike. His eyes, like embers fanned by tempest winds, blazed with venomous wrath. His form loomed vast and terrible, akin to a thundercloud at dusk, his sinews taut, his stance leonine. His tongue flickered, his gaze burned, his crown soared high, his raiment gleamed red as blood, his ornaments of purest gold adorned arms thick as serpents. His very being exuded a dread majesty, like Mount Mandara girded with the serpent Vasuki.
With his anger unbridled, Ravana lashed out, his voice a tempest. “O foolish woman! Thy devotion to a destitute prince blinds thee! As the sun devours darkness, so shall I consume thee! Behold, my demon guard, creatures of cruel form, crafted by the hand of fate for dire purpose—one-eyed, one-eared, grotesque in shape—bring this woman to submission! Use any means, bend her will!”
Thus did the wicked king, unable to bear the sting of her defiance, command his monstrous retinue to break her spirit. Yet amidst his cruelty, a demoness, Dhanyamali, spoke in honeyed tones. “O king! Why dost thou crave this frail, unworthy mortal? She holds no beauty to match thy grandeur. Look upon me instead, and revel in joy. True love is not mere possession, else it befit only beasts.”
The words, like a balm to his wounded pride, soothed his ire. He turned, his steps thundering, retreating to his vast halls bathed in golden light. There, amidst an assembly of celestial maidens—daughters of the gods, nagas, and yakshas—he sought solace.
Yet Sita, ensconced in virtue and girded by chastity, stood unmoved by his empty threats. Pity stirred in her heart—not for herself, but for the wretched demonesses who bore her guard. The only barrier that stayed her wrath was the sacred duty that bound her fate to Rama’s hand, a restraint that alone had spared the doomed king.
Ravana, in his arrogance, believed her shaken, hoping she would yield in fear. Yet this delusion was but a fleeting shadow, granting him hollow comfort. The tapestry of fate, woven in celestial hands, had already set the course of his downfall, awaiting its final stroke upon the battlefield of destiny.
