The daughter of Janaka, Sita, felt a rush of joy as fate gently turned its wheel in her favour. The words of Sarama, like soft rains upon parched soil, brought solace to her weary heart. With a voice sweet as spring and a smile of hope, Sarama pledged her aid. She declared her power to pass unseen through the sky, swifter than wind or Garuda, and convey news of Sita’s well-being to Rama.
Sita, with a heart grateful and eyes full of faith, acknowledged Sarama’s power to pierce the heavens and fathom the deep. She praised her loyalty, steadfast and unasked for, yet unwavering. But concern darkened her brow, for she yearned to know the state of the demon Ravana—what thoughts troubled him, what torment pressed upon his cunning mind. Surrounded by fierce demonesses and haunted by suspicion, Sita confessed her constant fear and begged Sarama to discover the enemy’s condition, to read the signs of his mind and fate.
Touched by the sorrow veiled in Sita’s voice, Sarama’s eyes welled with tears. She vowed to bring news from the demon king’s court and departed, unseen and swift. At Ravana’s palace, she listened keenly to the counsel exchanged. Every word fell into her ear with precision, and with haste, she returned to the Ashoka grove.
They’re stood Sita, like Lakshmi forsaken by lotuses, waiting with yearning eyes. She embraced Sarama, led her to sit, and begged to hear of the demon’s intentions. Sarama, gentle and wise, spoke of Kaikasi, Ravana’s mother, who had advised her son to release Sita with honour. The aged minister Avidha, too, had urged peace, reminding Ravana of Rama’s power—evident in the destruction at Janasthana and the mighty crossing of the sea by Hanuman. Yet Ravana, like a miser clinging to coin, refused to release her, bound by ego and destined for doom.
As Sarama finished her tale, thunderous sounds of war rang across Lanka. The simian army’s war cries shattered the calm, their valour and zeal shaking the hearts of demon warriors. Banners waved, drums rolled, and Rama approached, enveloped in a tide of bears and monkeys, the force of destiny behind him.
Hearing the din, Ravana sat in his hall, fuming. He spoke in scorn to his council, recalling Rama’s feats with a tone of bitter denial. But Malyavantha, the wise and seasoned minister, rose. He reminded Ravana of kingly duties, of the laws of diplomacy, and of the peril that loomed. If a foe is superior, it is wise to seek alliance; if inferior, battle may follow. In Rama, he saw not a mere man, but a being of divine measure—perhaps even Vishnu himself, builder of a bridge over the sea.
The omens, he said, were dire. Blood rained. Beasts wept. Birds flew no more but cried to the eastern sky. Grotesque dreams visited the people—beasts mingled with unnatural mates, fires burned blue, and sacrificial food was devoured by dogs instead of crows. Monsters with red fangs roamed the mind’s eye. The world tilted toward doom, and all signs foretold the fall of the demon race.
Yet Ravana remained unmoved. His eyes burned with wrath; his silence was violent. The wise words of Malyavantha fell on deaf ears. Thus, nature, in her solemn rhythm, began to strike her balance. The path of dharma, though obscured by pride, prepared to unfold its truth through war, judgment, and the restoration of cosmic order.
