The mighty son of Vayu, Hanuman, concealed amidst the verdant foliage of the Ashoka grove, beheld with keen eyes the sorrowful scene before him. The fair Sita, surrounded by grim-visaged demonesses, sat in sorrow, while the stillness of night waned into the first whispers of dawn.
Amidst the tranquil hour, known for its sacred aura, the air resonated with the faultless cadence of Vedic hymns. The learned demons, proficient in the sacred rites and adept in the esoteric knowledge of yajnas, chanted with precision, their voices harmonizing with the cosmic order. Hanuman, though in a land of foes, found solace in the purity of the chants that echoed through the grove, a stark contrast to the darkness that loomed over Lanka.
Yet, even as he listened, a sudden shift in the air heralded an arrival of great import. The flickering blaze of oil-lit torches, the rolling sound of drums, the piercing call of trumpets and horns proclaimed the approach of royalty. With alert senses, Hanuman adjusted his perch among the thick foliage, his keen eyes tracing the commotion below.
Then came the great lord of demons, Dasakanta Ravana, the ten-headed monarch of Lanka. His steps were measured, his gait commanding, his very presence exuding an aura of power unchallenged. Clad in resplendent silks, adorned with ornaments that gleamed like the rising sun, he strode forward, a figure of overwhelming brilliance. A garland of fresh blossoms graced his formidable form, while high-ranking courtiers bore the royal umbrella above him. As he passed, the learned scholars intoned Vedic hymns, their ritual chants invoking elemental forces, yet nature remained impartial, for she stands always with the virtuous.
Hanuman’s gaze swept across the scene, noting the shimmering waters of the garden’s lakes, where birds, plump with satisfaction, nestled in contentment. Herds of deer, their eyes wide with awe, beheld the spectacle of the demon king, an infrequent visitor to this sacred grove. Fruits lay scattered upon the ground, their mingling fragrances enriching the air, as if nature itself paid homage to the moment.
The procession was grand, a sight to arrest the senses. Hundreds of women, bedecked in exquisite garments, walked with grace, their figures adorned with gems and pearls. Some bore golden torches, their flames casting a warm glow; others held fans of delicate make, waving them with practiced ease; yet others carried golden urns filled with pure water, or kettles crafted of ruby-studded gold, brimming with honeyed wine and rare nectars. Their rhythmic steps traced a path upon ground encrusted with gold and silver, studded with corals and gems.
At Ravana’s side walked a woman of swan-like elegance, holding aloft a regal umbrella of shimmering gold. The most exquisite among his consorts, she moved with an effortless grace, while behind them, celestial nymphs, radiant as the dawn, followed in measured steps, trailing like flashes of lightning across the firmament. Yet among them, some, roused hastily from slumber, bore signs of hurried preparation—their ornaments misaligned, their robes slightly askew, the scent of last night’s revelries lingering faintly upon them. Ill-prepared they were, and yet bound by custom, they followed their lord.
Unaware of the true purpose of their journey, the women whispered among themselves, casting glances toward the grove, while Ravana, his form exuding authority, pressed forward with a purpose known only to him. As he neared Sita’s dwelling, the soft tinkling of anklets and the delicate chimes of golden waistbands announced the presence of his retinue. Yet his own countenance betrayed the nature of his intent—desire and pride intermingled with unbridled lust, his crimson eyes burning with self-adoration. He moved with the confidence of one unmatched, his garments of pure silk flowing in harmony with his regal frame.
Hanuman, hidden among the branches, observed with a mix of awe and loathing. The celestial women in Ravana’s company followed him of their own volition, their devotion evident, untouched by coercion. The demon king, a scion of sage Visravas, grandson of Brahmarshi Pulastya, exuded a divine radiance, yet Hanuman knew well that beneath the brilliance lay a heart corrupted by arrogance and insatiable desire.
As Ravana approached, the hush of nature fell upon the grove. The captive Sita, seated upon the bare earth, shuddered at his presence, her slender form drawing inward as a sapling bends before a storm. Wrapping her saree tightly around her, she sat in silent defiance, anger flashing in her sorrow-laden eyes. The daughter of Janaka, guarded closely by cruel demonesses, seemed as a ship tossed upon a tempestuous sea, an embodiment of virtue trapped amidst the wicked.
Ravana’s gaze lingered upon her, his thoughts unreadable, his power undeniable. She, in contrast, seemed like a fallen branch of a mighty tree, a lotus cast into mire. Yet within her lay a strength undiminished, for her heart soared beyond Lanka’s walls, riding the chariot of dreams to her beloved Rama. Though fate had cast her into darkness, her soul remained steadfast, bound in unwavering devotion.
She was as a celestial Rohini obscured by the menacing shadow of a comet, her radiance dimmed but not extinguished. She was virtue besmirched by falsehood, honor tarnished by slander, an ocean bereft of waves, a river parched before its time. Her brilliance, like a sacred flame, now lay subdued beneath layers of sorrow.
Ravana, intoxicated and adorned, stood before her, his magnificence mirroring the moon, surrounded by eager stars. Yet to Sita, he was but a tyrant, a force of darkness encroaching upon her unyielding light. Her heart, bound to Rama, knew no fear, even as despair clutched at her spirit.
Hanuman, from his concealed perch, watched intently, his breath steady, his resolve firm. Though his warrior heart burned with the urge to strike down the arrogant demon, wisdom held his hand. To act now would be folly—Sita’s life hung in the balance, and his mission must not be jeopardized by rashness. Instead, he steeled himself, whispering a prayer to Rama, invoking the strength to endure the provocation before him.
Thus did the stage set itself—pride against virtue, lust against chastity, power against responsibility. And though the moment belonged to Ravana, the wheel of time turned ever onward, inexorably aligning itself with the forces of righteousness. The great shift was imminent, the destined retribution of dharma but a breath away.