Struck was the daughter of Janaka—not by weapon or wound, but by the blow of unbearable words, falling in Rama’s camp as a thunderclap upon a cloudless sky. Her spirit reeled, not at suspicion, for she felt none in his heart, but at something more grievous—a storm of anger, compulsion, or sorrow, whose source she could not divine. The beloved of her soul, Rama, in whose breath she had found her being, now pierced her with words crueller than the blade, spoken before the assembled hosts and herds. Shame engulfed her like a tide; her form trembled as if wounded by a thousand arrows; her eyes swelled with tears; her voice broke.
Then, slowly, like a moon rising through mist, she composed herself, and with trembling breath and choking voice, thus she spoke: “O mighty one! Thou speak not as a prince who hath known the world, but as a man untried, addressing a common woman. O bearer of strong sinews! Never have I walked the path that thou suspect. By my chastity I swear, my virtue stands unblemished. Thy fear of woman’s way—let not the errant acts of the world’s weak souls cloud thy vision. If thy heart yet beats in rhythm with mine, cast away this cruel doubt. I was seized not by choice but by fate, stolen in slumber, unconscious of my own being. That act lies not in my will. My thoughts, my breath, my inner flame—all remain bound to thee. Is this not known to thee, O King, who wert ever the protector of modesty, the shield of the pure?
For long years I shared thy life, and still, thou knowest not my truth? Then mine is the failing. Yet didst thou not send Hanuman, the noble soul, in search of me? Tell me, why didst thou not cast me aside then, when he found me in Lanka? Had thou done so, I would have drawn my last breath. But thou didst not. Thou didst rise to war, shed blood, suffer, and bring grief to thy allies. And now, when the battle is won, thou abandon me as one fallen. If doubt was thine, why not act then? Why now, when honour has been reclaimed?
O King among men, thy wrath and sorrow cloud thy noble soul. Today thou speak as one unknowing the sacred essence of a woman’s worth. Thou art born of great lineage and raised in the discipline of dharma. I am Janaka’s daughter by the world’s eye, but verily, I am born of Earth herself. When thou didst take my hand in marriage, didst thou not bind thyself by sacred vow? Now thou reject my devotion, my vow, my flame of chastity.
With tears flooding her eyes, she turned to Lakshmana, who stood as one turned to stone, aghast and pierced with silent grief. In a voice steeped in sorrow, Sita cried, “O Lakshmana, I am cast away—my lord has rejected me, not in privacy but before multitudes. False shadows are thrown upon my conduct, and I am unfit now to breathe the air of life. I must pass into the fire, to the place from which none return.”
Lakshmana, torn in spirit, cast a glance of fury and anguish upon Rama, yet beheld in him the visage of Yama himself—immovable, unspeaking. No soul dared approach him. With a heavy heart and steady hand, Lakshmana prepared the pyre as his brother’s will commanded.
Sita, radiant like the rising sun, her head bowed, circled Rama with her hands folded. She turned then to the blazing fire, her voice ringing clear through the gathering: “If my heart be true, if it beats in unison with Rama, the witness of all worlds, then let the fire preserve me. If my chastity is flawless and Rama sees its truth, then let Agni, the god of fire, shield me. If my mind, my word, my deed belong to Rama alone, let this sacred flame know and spare me.”
Calling upon the Sun, the Moon, the Wind, the Directions, Day and Night, Earth, and all the gods, she cried, “If they know me as chaste, let the Fire, divine witness, embrace me unharmed.” So, she spoke and walked without tremble, circled the fire, and entered the blaze as if it were a sanctified altar. Her gold ornaments glowed like the sun, her silks shimmered as though kissed by heaven. The tongues of flame rose to the sky as if receiving a divine offering. The heavens looked on—the gods, sages, beasts, and mortals—all stood still.
The fire accepted her as sacred ghee upon the altar, as though sanctified by Vedic hymns. The three worlds gasped, as if some cursed goddess had fallen from celestial realms. Sita, like purity incarnate, walked into the heart of fire.
Cries rose from bears and monkeys, from sages and men. Rama, scion of righteousness, stood unmoved, yet his heart stirred. Tears welled, though he stood like a mountain. Then, as the moment turned still, the skies trembled.
Kubera, Yama with the spirits of the departed, the seven clans of celestial priests, Indra the King of Gods, Varuna the Rain Lord, Rudra the Three-eyed, Maheshwara, Brahma the Creator, and Surya the Radiant all descended upon Lanka. With folded hands, they spoke to Rama, “O Lord of the Universe, why do you wait, unmoved, as Sita enters the flame? Why hide thyself among mortals when you are the soul of the cosmos? In ancient time you were Ruthadhama among the Vasus. You are the Eighth Rudra, the Fifth Sadhya, the inner breath of all. The Aswini twins’ dwell in your ears, Surya and Chandra are your eyes. You are the cause before creation and the end beyond end.”
They continued, “You are Narayana, wielder of the Disc, bearer of Lakshmi. You were the boar that lifted the earth, the slayer of demons’ eternal. You are without birth or death, the sacred Om, the highest Brahman, known in all Vedas and yet known to none. In you dwell the fire of penance, the waters of mercy, the breath of Vayu, the stability of Earth. You are the yajna, the Vasatkara, the primal sound. You are Upendra and Madhusudana. The sword Nandaka gleams in your might. You pervade all things. You wear Earth as your garment, bear the lotus of creation in your navel. You guard the sages and the Vedas flow from your breath.”
And Brahma declared, “Sita is Lakshmi. You are Vishnu—eternal, blue-hued, radiant. You descended in human form to strike down Ravana and fulfil the burden of the gods. Now, let your true form shine. Let the world see its Lord.”
Then Rama, the noblest of Raghu’s, his voice calm as the sea, said, “O Gods, I am Rama, son of Dasaratha. A mortal. Tell me, if I am other than this, why am I here, and what is my purpose?”
And Brahma, seated among the celestial hosts, answered: “You are the eternal Lord. What you call Rama is but a name. Your purpose is dharma. Your form is a sacrifice. Your soul is the truth. You are the unseen root of all that exists.”
Thus, in the moment when flame met the pure, when the world held its breath and time itself paused, Rama stood between duty and destiny—one man, and yet more than man—torn between the law of kings and the love of eternity.
