Then soared Pushpaka, the divine chariot of aerial grace, at the command of Rama, cutting the winds and climbing into the heavens, gliding over the blood-soaked grounds of Lanka, where war had thundered and destinies had been unmade. Rama, seated beside Sita with care and reverence in his voice, said—Behold, O wide-eyed Mythili, the island city of Lanka upon the peaks of Trikuta, wrought by Visvakarma’s celestial art, gleams like sacred Kailasa itself. See now, beloved, the ghastly field beneath, where the warriors of rakshasas and vanaras lie fallen, their limbs strewn, their bodies sunken into the mire of flesh and blood. Here, O Sita, was Ravana, the ten-headed sovereign, once blessed by Brahma, now fallen for his sins, pierced by dharma’s arrow.
There fells the mountainous Kumbhakarna, his steps once shaking the earth. Here lay Prahastha, commander of dread. Dhumraksha met his doom at Hanuman’s fire. Sushena the wise slew Vidyunmali here. On this very soil did Lakshmana, lion among men, strike down Indrajit—the master of illusion, son of Ravana, weaver of black arts. Angada crushed the demon Vikata here. And here too the dreaded ones—Virupaksha, Mahodara, Mahaparsva, Akampana, Trisira, Athikaya, Devantaka, Narantaka—all breathed their last. Behold the earth where Kumbha and Nikumbha, sons of the colossal Kumbhakarna, were slain in battle. Vajradamstra, Damstra—demon lords of war, perished here.
And here I, Rama, ended the fury of Makaraksha, the terror of warriors. Upon this bloodied earth fell Akampana, Sonitaksha, Yupaksha, Praghanjana, the furious horde. Even the mighty Vidyutjihva, Yajnasatru, Supthaghna, Suryasatru, Brahmasatru—all perished here in that conflagration of fate. Here, Mandodari, queen of sorrow, wept beside the broken crown of Dasanana. Sita, remember the night when we crossed the roaring ocean and stood upon these very banks. O lotus-eyed one, this bridge of stones that binds the mainland to Lanka, forged by Nala, the son of Vishvakarma, was laid for you across the salty surge of Sagara, whose waves sing praises to King Sagara of the Ikshvaku line.
See now, dearest, the lord of the waters—Varuna’s vast and fathomless ocean, stretching beyond sight, roaring like eternity, its shores bejewelled with scattered shells that glint like stars under the sun’s benediction. Gaze upon the golden hill of Mainaka that rose from the depths to give Hanuman rest on his fateful flight for your sake. Here, our warriors rested, and Lord Shiva himself bestowed grace upon me. This sacred site of Sethu—the divine bridge—is worshipped by gods, men, and sages alike, its name whispered in the winds of the three worlds. Here Vibhishana, noble among rakshasas and pure of heart, sought my refuge and swore his dharma.
Now turn, O Sita, and let thy gaze drink the beauty of Sugreeva’s realm—those emerald groves, fragrant blossoms, and trees heavy with fruits—kingdom of Kishkindha, land of vanaras, where once the sun rose and set upon Vali’s rule. It was here I felled him in just cause. Then spoke Sita, her tone soft and humble—Rama, lord of mine, if thou consent, I desire to return to Ayodhya accompanied by Tara and Ruma, queens of the vanaras, and their noble attendants. Rama, pleased by her wish, commanded the divine chariot to descend at the palace of Sugreeva and sent word—O Sugreeva, valiant king, thou and thy queens are summoned to Ayodhya by Sita herself. Come with thy women and delight us with thy presence.
And Sugreeva, entering his jewel-laden halls, turned to Tara and said—O queen of discerning mind, the great Rama invites the noble vanara women to his city. Prepare with your companions, for we journey to the land of kings to witness Ayodhya’s splendor and offer homage to the queens of Dasaratha. Tara, glowing with joy, replied—As Sugreeva commands, so shall it be. We shall behold Ayodhya, abode of dharma, radiant with glory that rivals Amaravati. Thus, adorned in garments of celestial grace and ornaments of purity, they encircled the Pushpaka with reverence, saluted Rama and Sita with folded hands, and ascended the sky-bound chariot. As the craft rose like a thought across the heavens, Rama continued the tale of sacred lands to Sita.
Behold, lady of noble brow, the mighty Rushyamuka—its peaks crowned with golden ore, gleaming like storm-lit clouds. Here did I first meet Sugreeva and ally Vali’s defeat. Below flows the sweet river Pampa, graced with lotus and shimmering waters, where I once wept for you, dear Sita, in longing and despair. Here did I meet Sabari, saint of pure devotion, and accept her offerings of love. Here fell the giant Kabandha, cursed and limb-bound. O gentle lady, gaze upon Janasthana—beneath yonder great tree, Ravana, deceiver and taker of souls, slew Jatayu, the noble bird, in his brave effort to save you. Here in this forested hermitage my arrows felled Khara, Dushana and Trisira, demons of dread.
And from this same place, O sweet-skinned Sita, that vile Ravana stole you away. See now, the sacred river Godavari, where groves of plantain shade the ashram of the sage Agastya. There shines the hermitage of Sutheekshna, serene in discipline. And not far, the hermitage of Sarabhanga, where once I beheld the thousand-eyed Indra, king of gods. Now behold the blazing ascetic home of sage Athri, his robes glowing like sacrificial fire. Here I slew the demon Viradha. Here, you received the grace of Anasuya, a motherly and wise one. This, O Sita, is Chitrakuta, the mountain of peace, where Bharata once came to plead for my return to Ayodhya. Look upon the Yamuna, winding through thick forests. Near its bank lies the ashram of sage Bharadwaja. There, where flora and fauna thrive in joy, flows the sacred Ganga. Here lies the dwelling of my friend Guha, chief of Sringiberapura. O Vaidehi, see the poles of yajna rituals, trees bowed with fruit and fragrance—this is Ayodhya, the land of our fathers. Let us now salute her with hearts full of reverence.
And all aboard the Pushpaka rose in unison, their hands joined in prayer, their hearts uplifted. The rakshasas reformed, the vanara warriors, the noble women—they beheld from the sky the city of Ayodhya, with streets like threads of silk, white palaces gleaming like moonlight, horses and elephants in pageantry, rivalling even the city of Indra himself. Rama’s narration, vivid and layered, had a greater purpose—for among those gathered, few knew the full breadth of his journey, its struggles, and divine tests. Some joined him mid-path, some at the close, others at the edge of battle.
But only Rama and Lakshmana, silent and resolute, bore the weight of the full tale. And so Rama, alone among men, chose to illumine all with the tapestry of memory—their pain and sacrifice, their blessings and prayers, their trials and triumphs. And thus, he declared—O companions, behold! The path of duty, the courage to strive, the will to endure, the calm of judgement, the flame of perseverance—all lead to one end: Victory, not of arms alone, but of righteousness. And so, the chariot flew on, bearing the legacy of a war that restored the balance of the three worlds.
