Hanuman beheld the slumbering women, their gentle breaths exhaling the fragrance of honeyed draughts and ripened fruits, summoning wayward bees to their scented repose. Some, lost in the haze of dreams, embraced their companions in tender illusion, exchanging silent gestures of warmth. Others, still ensnared in the rhythm of their dance, lay with limbs in motion, as if swaying to an unheard melody. Some clasped the hands of their sisters as pillows, while a few, their lips faintly moving, seemed to murmur the lingering sweetness of indulgent revelry.
Like blossoms scattered by the wind, they lay where they pleased, their heads resting in haphazard circles, drawn near to one another in the vast chamber, bound by the silent spell of slumber. In this deep and undisturbed sleep, all distinctions were erased—rank, station, and pride dissolved into the embrace of repose, that greatest equalizer bestowed by nature upon all beings. The silvered light of the moon reigned supreme over this enchanted realm, casting an ethereal glow upon their reposed forms. They lay intertwined, their dark tresses locked in intricate rings, resembling vines that had twined together in an inseparable embrace. A garland of celestial flowers, they seemed, suspended in the heavens beneath the watchful eye of the night.
Yet beneath this tranquil beauty lay the unseen dominion of Ravana, whose presence, though absent, loomed over them. None dared cast an errant glance upon his consorts while under his sovereign gaze. The steady lamps burned like the unblinking eyes of the demon king, ever watchful, their glow whispering of his unwavering dominion. These women, drawn from royal lineages, from the celestial races of Gandharvas, Yakshas, and Kinneras, had yielded themselves to his court, enraptured by his power, wealth, and splendor.
Surveying the chamber, Hanuman pondered their fate. They did not appear unwilling captives but rather souls entranced by the grandeur of Lanka and the might of its king. No murmur of longing for another man escaped their lips, no sign of sorrow clouded their repose. Each was adorned with beauty, strength, and grace, their charm rivaling one another in a silent contest of allure. Their intelligence, refinement, and regal bearing were treasures of the demon king, embellishing his rule like jewels upon a crown.
But Sita, daughter of Janaka, belonged to no such company. Her heart beat for Rama alone, her spirit bound to his as the pulse of Ayodhya’s sovereign. She would not partake of honeyed draughts, nor don fine silks, nor find ease in this opulent prison. Her radiance was of a different kind—unearthly, untouchable, a light beyond Ravana’s grasp. Hanuman knew she must be elsewhere, veiled in grief, yet luminous in her sorrow.
A thought crossed his mind—if Ravana would but surrender Sita, seek refuge in Rama’s grace, perhaps he would be spared. The women of Lanka would remain undisturbed, their pleasures unbroken. Even if Sugriva were to claim them as spoils of war, Rama, the upholder of dharma, would never permit the dishonor of any woman. They were safe under his righteous rule. But until Sita was found, Hanuman’s purpose remained unfulfilled. Without knowledge of her whereabouts, he could not return. The beauty of Ravana’s harem, though resplendent, could never compare to Sita’s divine virtues—her flawless chastity, her ethereal glow that no mortal splendor could rival. She was not here. She could not be here.
Determined, Hanuman pressed onward, seeking the innermost sanctum of the demon king. He entered a chamber surpassing even the halls of Indra in its magnificence. The floor gleamed with crystal, its artistry adorned with rubies and gems. Thrones, draped in golden-threaded silk, stood like emblems of dominion, their armrests carved from ivory, their surfaces inlaid with emeralds and sapphires. A regal umbrella, studded with precious stones, shone like a fragment of the moon descended to earth.
At the heart of this chamber lay a vast golden couch, veiled in exquisite drapery, its pillows of unparalleled softness, its canopy adorned with pearls and gemstones. The very air shimmered with intoxicating fragrances, curling in delicate wisps as if breathing life into the stillness. Around the throne stood women bearing fans, others holding golden goblets filled with aromatic nectars, their tender rays gleaming like liquid sunlight.
And there, amid this splendor, lay Ravana.
A figure of formidable might, he slumbered like a storm momentarily at rest. His ear ornaments shone like Vishnu’s spinning discus, his deep-red eyes smoldering even in repose, like embers yet to be extinguished. His mighty arms, longer than an elephant’s trunk, bore the scars of countless battles. His garments, woven from threads of molten gold, clung to his form, shimmering like the twilight sun descending upon the horizon. A being of shifting form, his presence radiated both majesty and menace, his stillness exuding a power that had no need for constant assertion.
From a distance, he seemed a great mountain, his presence filling the chamber with an aura of inviolable dominion. Hanuman studied him closely, reading in his colossal form the silent testament of conquests past. Upon his arms were the marks of celestial battles—the wounds left by Indra’s Airavata, by Vishnu’s divine discus, by Garuda’s talons in their fateful clash. Each scar whispered of a war fought, a foe bested. His muscles, sinewy and taut, mirrored the maces that stood sentinel at his gates.
Hanuman watched, entranced, as Ravana’s breath rose and fell like the ominous hissing of a slumbering serpent. The sheer weight of his presence, even in sleep, was suffused with dominance. Drawing nearer, Hanuman observed his formidable limbs, each stretched across the golden cot like the pillars of Indra’s celestial umbrella. Even in unconsciousness, he exuded power, his repose more regal than most kings’ thrones.
The fearless son of Vayu beheld all, yet his purpose remained undeterred. He had not come to marvel at Ravana’s grandeur but to fulfill the divine mission entrusted to him. As he advanced, his thoughts sharpened—this was but a step in the grand unfolding of fate. Each moment brought him closer to an event that would shake the cosmos, that would alter the course of time itself.
And so, with unwavering resolve, Hanuman pressed forward, ready to venture deeper into the heart of Lanka’s darkness, knowing that the light of Sita’s presence awaited discovery.
