In the grand court of Kishkindha, Sugriva, the mighty Monkey King, issued a solemn decree:
“Let the entire simian host, a legion numbering near a crore, be assembled before the fifteenth day hence! Let none falter in this summons, lest they face the wrath of justice.”
With his decree spoken, the king retired to his resplendent palace, leaving the great task set forth.
The heavens stretched in serene vastness, their azure depths adorned with swirls of cloud, like pearls suspended in an unseen thread. The moon, fair and unblemished, cast its silvery glow upon the earth, weaving a dreamlike charm upon the land.
Yet amidst this tranquil beauty, Rama, son of Dasharatha, stood gazing skyward, his heart weighed with silent lament. The touch of autumn whispered upon the land, and he, lost in contemplation, surmised that Sugriva, swayed by the season’s pleasures, had forsaken his solemn vow. The search for Sita, the daughter of Janaka, lay uncommissioned, and doubt crept into Rama’s heart.
He beheld the sky, now bereft of lightning’s fire and thunder’s roar. Great flocks of cranes painted the heavens, their cries resounding across the firmament, heralding the season of harvest. The world reverberated with their songs, but to Rama, they were echoes of sorrow.
His eyes swept over the golden expanse of mountains, where the sun’s gleam danced upon the peaks, reflecting the radiance of the heavens. A sigh escaped him.
“Once,” he mused, “Sita stood beside me, her laughter mingling with the calls of these very cranes. She would mimic their voices, delighting in their company, and they, as if charmed by her innocence, would respond in mirthful harmony. Now, where does she wander? Amidst what cruel company does she endure?”
His mind drifted to the champaka blossoms—Sita’s favored bloom. How often had she spoken of their fragrance, their golden hue, their delicate grace?
“Now,” he lamented, “whom does she speak to? What beauty meets her gaze in the barren lands of demons?”
He recalled her fascination with the swans at dawn, the way she marveled at their graceful greetings, her delighted watch as coots flitted through the air with playful abandon. Every thought of her was a wound upon his heart, each memory a torment.
Even in the simplest acts—bathing in a lake, treading through the forest—his mind was haunted by the presence now absent.
“Her eyes,” he murmured, “like the swift glances of a startled deer, serene as lotus petals, must now be brimming with tears. Does she wail in her sorrow, bereft of my embrace?”
Thus, Rama, the best among men, sank into a momentary abyss of despair, like the jacobin cuckoo that pines for the first drop of Indra’s rain.
Yet Lakshmana, steadfast and resolute, bore fruits and forest provisions to their dwelling. His keen gaze fell upon Rama, seated in solitude, his spirit lost in the desert of sorrow. At once, he approached, his voice firm yet filled with devotion.
“O noble king!” he spoke, “why let grief weigh upon you so? To dwell upon past sorrows is unworthy of your greatness. It saps strength, weakens resolve, and darkens the mind. Rise, my brother! Cast off this veil of despair! Let not inaction stain your noble heart. The time for lament has passed—now is the hour for action!”
Lakshmana’s words, sharp as a warrior’s blade, sought to rouse Rama from his sorrow.
“Turn to Sugriva, who swore upon his honor! Gather his host, and with divine resolve, let us fulfill our mission. O Rama, son of the Sun-dynasty, know this—Sita’s devotion is unshaken. No force, no being, can sever the bond that unites you. You are fire itself, and none dare touch its blaze!”
Hearing this, Rama, his sorrow tempered by reason, turned to Lakshmana, his voice steady.
“O noble brother, wise and unwavering! The mission must not falter. Let no fear hinder our course. Now, let us forge a path, for great challenges await—the strongholds of demons, their cunning ways, their inevitable resistance. The image of Sita lingers in my mind, yet duty calls, and I shall not waver!”
He surveyed the land and spoke of the season’s turning.
**”Behold, Lakshmana! The torrents have ceased, the sky is cleared of its tempest. The black clouds, once brooding and fierce, now scatter in tranquil retreat. The season unfolds in all its splendor—tall banana groves dance in the breeze, flowering trees bow under the weight of their blooms, and the rivers run clear, free of the muddy torrents of rain. Nature, in its bounty, smiles upon the world, and the air is sweet with the perfume of blossoms and ripe fruits.
The ruddy geese grace the riverbanks like celestial beings draped in silken robes. The swans, in their frolic, sing melodies unknown even to the sages of the Sama Veda. Streams flow unbridled, their waters leaping like joyous dancers unshackled. The peacocks, once wild in the storm, now fold into serene meditation, awaiting the next season’s call.
See, Lakshmana—the earth itself proclaims this hour fit for kings to ride forth and wage war! The dust of distant lands stirs, a sign that warriors move to reclaim their honor. The bulls, unbridled and strong, stand amidst their herds, their bellowing a challenge to the heavens. Even the elephants, their mighty herds in solemn march, seek the bamboo groves, their hunger leading them forth with measured strides.
The sky, free of clouds, gleams like a polished sword. The rivers, their silt settled, flow in crystalline purity. The serpents, long hidden in their burrows, emerge to seek prey, their hunger sharpening their cunning.
Behold the night—clad in a silver mantle, the moon her radiant face, the stars her bejeweled eyes. The birds of the field feast upon ripened grains, their flight painting garlands across the sky, their calls a hymn to nature’s bounty. The swans, in tranquil rest, float upon the lotus-laden lakes, while the bamboo groves whisper melodies to the night breeze.
The very air is filled with the hum of bumblebees, intoxicated with nectar, weaving their way through riverbanks and flowering meadows. The herons sing their songs, filling the land with echoes of joy.
And yet, in all this splendor, Sugriva has not stirred. Not a whisper of the search for Sita has reached my ears. The time has ripened, the pledge must be honored!”
His voice grew solemn.
“Four months I have endured, each moment stretched into a hundred years by the agony of Sita’s absence. She followed me into exile, ready to face all hardships—now she lingers in the land of demons, while I, a king without a throne, remain bereft in the forest.
O Lakshmana, I fear Sugriva, content in his leisure, has turned away from his oath. He forgets the debt he owes, and I must remind him!
Go to him, my brother! Speak to him of duty, of honor! Let him not tread the path of Vali, which leads to an unreturnable realm. Should he falter in his pledge, let him know that the wrath of Rama is swift and terrible! Let him not dare to hear the twang of my bow nor feel the sting of my arrows.
O Lakshmana, my trusted warrior, remind Sugriva—time has passed, the season is right! If he falters, if he forgets, awaken his memory with the weight of truth! Delay not—hasten forth!”**
And so, Lakshmana, the lion-hearted, his anger kindling like a firestorm, strode forth, his purpose blazing. As the season unveiled its beauty, so too did fate unfold its decree—Rama’s words, steeped in wisdom and grief, stood as the herald of war, and the hour of reckoning for the demon king had begun.