Amid the mighty court of Lanka, where grandeur echoed with every breath of pride, stood Vibhishana—noble of heart, righteous in mind, and unmatched in counsel, his wisdom rivaling even that of Brihaspati, preceptor of the gods. Yet the virtues he bore, like fragrant incense in a hall of filth, were stifled by the corrupt air. The court, dominated by cunning whispers and delusions pleasing to lustful minds, found no nourishment in truth or righteousness. Ravana, ever swayed by flattery that appealed to his fierce ambition and tempestuous desires, leaned instinctively towards deception. Though Vibhishana’s words were heeded in silence by the gathered assembly, their hearts leaned not toward virtue but trembled under the weight of power and fear.
No one dared stand at the crossroads between divinity and wickedness; the court, though robed in grandeur, was a hive of trembling loyalties. They stood with Ravana not from love, but self-preservation, for to oppose the king was to sign one’s death, while opposing Vibhishana bore no threat. All eyes turned to the tempest of the moment, waiting for the first voice to cast its shadow upon the chamber.
It was then that Indrajit, son of Ravana, arose—a warrior of valor, skilled in illusion and arms, his pride as radiant as his arms were mighty. With voice firm and eyes alight with defiance, he addressed his uncle with scorn: “O my father’s cherished brother, what folly do you speak? Is it not laughable to compare a mere mortal to the towering scion of Visravasu, heir of a line steeped in legend, bathed in glory? Your cowardice alone gives wind to these words. Even the low-born of Lanka would scorn such speech. You, and you alone, stand bereft of courage in our glorious bloodline. Even our foes grant our king his due; only you belittle him.”
“Do you forget, O Vibhishana, that I alone subdued Devendra, lord of the heavens, and brought him captive to this very city? That I struck terror into the hearts of gods, tore tusks from the celestial Airavata and cast them to earth? Have you forgotten how the very heavens trembled and the daityas bowed before Ravana’s might? Is it then such a challenge to bring down mortal princes? Why do you poison this court with phantoms of fear?”
Vibhishana, calm as moonlight before a storm, beheld Indrajit with a gaze of sorrowed affection. “O brave youth,” he said, “your limbs are strong, but your mind yet raw. Valor without wisdom is like a chariot without reins—reckless and doomed. You wield strength, but not yet discernment. You speak with pride, yet it is shallow, fed by illusion. Your counsel, though wrapped in boldness, leads to ruin. You mean to serve the king, but your words endanger him and this golden isle alike.”
“You call me a coward, yet I dare speak what none here will. You call Rama a mortal—yet his arrows rival the rod of Brahma. They are no ordinary shafts but are steeped in divinity, blessed by fate itself. They are death’s own rope, ready to fall. What demon may withstand them? Ravana, my brother and king, let not this boy’s words mislead you. Return Sita with honor, robed in silks and gems, and send her to Rama. Thus shall we save Lanka from ruin.”
These words, firm and noble, struck Ravana like a tempest upon a defiant cliff. His eyes blazed, and with the fury of betrayed pride, he roared, “Vibhishana! Better to live with a known enemy, better to sleep beside a coiled serpent, than to keep near a traitor masked as kin. I know the nature of relatives well—they smile at one’s fall, feast on hidden delight in another’s ruin. The world knows it: the true threat to kings is not weapon or fire, but the treacherous kin who yield the path to the enemy’s grasp.”
“Kin who know your secrets, who walk beside you, and yet crave your downfall—these are deadlier than any foe. You are like the bee that deserts the flower it feeds on, ever craving the next scent. Or the elephant that, after a sacred bath, sullies itself in mud. Such is kinship with those whose hearts lean toward enemies. Had you been any other than my brother, I would have your head cast high upon a pike this very moment. You have shamed our lineage.”
Vibhishana, wounded yet undeterred, spoke not a word in reply. With solemn dignity he raised his mace and ascended to the skies. Four noble demons followed him, their loyalty now severed from the throne. Hovering above the court, he called out, “Ravana, you are my brother, and may speak as you wish. In scriptures, a brother is as a father—but your words burn. I spoke only for your safety, for the well-being of Lanka and her people. But fate is deaf, and time draws tight the noose. You will not hear counsel, for your end approaches.”
“I will not stand by while Lanka burns, while Rama, like a divine fire, devours our pride and power. Even the noblest fall before time, as mud dissolves beneath water. You rejoice in my departure—then rejoice. I go, not in bitterness, but in sorrow. I offered truth, and you rejected it. That is the sign of your nearing end.”
Thus, Vibhishana departed, and with him the last light of reason fled from the court of Ravana. A great rift had opened between brothers, not of blood, but of spirit. Vibhishana’s wisdom, clear as crystal, shattered the fragile illusion of power, yet found no place in the iron will of a king intoxicated with destiny. Ravana now strode not with purpose, but with doom at his heels—hastening not only his own ruin, but the fall of the entire demon world. And so, through harsh truth, the balance of cosmos prepared to right itself—by fire, by virtue, and by the hand of fate.
