From the vantage of the barbarous demoness throngs and the savage deportment of the loyal guards of the demon king, the sight of Sita pierced through like a lance of woe, sending shockwaves through her virtuous soul. Her pious and discerning mind, now veiled in sorrow, brimmed with a wellspring of tears. The self-respect of her chaste existence lay trampled under the merciless heel of the demon horde, guided by the vile and crooked machinations of Ravana.
Desperation seized her, and with a voice choked by grief, with tremors upon her lips, she cried, “If it be your will to devour me, then do so without hesitation! But your sinister counsel shall find no harbour in my soul.” The reverent daughter of Janaka, cast amidst the savage herd, reeled beneath the crude affronts of Ravana. Like a tender twig caught in a tempest’s grip, she quivered. Like a gentle doe, astray in the wilderness, ensnared by a ravenous pack of wolves, she trembled for her life.
Bound in the coils of despair, bereft of all cheer, she grasped the thickly flowered branch of the Ashoka tree. Her thoughts turned to Rama, and for a moment, her composure was restored. Yet, the shadow of peril loomed ever near, and she quaked like a banana tree in the frigid winds of winter. Her complexion, once radiant, paled; her eyes, swollen with the weight of grief and fear. Her trembling form, her unkempt tresses, swayed like a hissing serpent poised to strike.
Alone in this realm of terror, without kin to offer solace, her mind wandered into the dark corridors of mortal frailty. “I am severed from my very life’s pulse—Rama—and surrounded by hunters who thirst for my ruin. How have I endured thus far? Even my thoughts cannot fathom it. This, indeed, affirms the ancient decree of fate—that none may seize death at will but must await its appointed hour. Am I doomed to perish as a hapless woman, adrift like a laden ship smote by the tempest, swallowed by the abyss without a trace?”
The memory of Rama, lion-hearted, lotus-eyed, with countenance divine and words as soft as the murmur of a river, stirred within her. “Fortune alone grants the privilege of his presence. Without him, my existence is void, my fate akin to one who has imbibed the deadliest of poisons. My suffering is but the fruition of sins accumulated over countless ages. Even in my hour of despair, these demons deny me release, withholding the very freedom to choose my final breath. What a feeble and sorrow-laden thing is mortal life, swayed by grief, shackled by circumstance!”
Sita, young and radiant, bowed her head upon her lap. The weight of cruelty and dread pressed upon her, and she swirled like a helpless filly upon the earth. “But for a fleeting lapse of Rama’s vigilance, this demon king seized me in deception! Their threats loom over me like a storm, and yet—I cannot surrender. If I am to safeguard Rama and his kinsmen, then I must endure. These demons must meet their destined end, and I must live to witness their downfall. My heart is stronger than they reckon, for I have borne the boundless torment of this captivity.”
“To be parted from Rama is against the order of nature. Yet, how much longer before justice claims its due? My lord is the sovereign of the earth. Never has a word from his lips caused me sorrow; each syllable is a jewel, each gesture a mark of meaning. How then shall I remain far from him, steeped in uncertainty? Let these wretches tear me asunder! Yet, I am the very heartbeat of Rama—I must endure for him. Ravana’s loathsome desire shall crumble; his arrogance shall be shattered. He cloaks his malice in cunning, yet ruin clings to him like a shadow. The tide of his fate is turning, and with it, the doom of Lanka.”
Resolute, she faced the jeering demonesses, her voice unwavering. “Your threats fall upon barren ground. I would sooner surrender my life than yield to the wretched Ravana! Abandon your futile attempts—no force can shake my devotion to Rama! The glory of Ikshvaku and the honour of Mithila shall not be sullied. Cease this folly and seek your own salvation! Rama, the righteous, the magnanimous, the very embodiment of virtue, shall yet cast his mercy upon you. His gentleness endures, though momentarily concealed.”
Her eyes flashed with divine certainty. “Know you not? In Janasthana alone, Rama vanquished fourteen thousand demons in a mere hour and eleven minutes. Do you think he will not dare to reclaim me? Ravana’s cowardly deceit has brought me here, but soon he shall meet his reckoning. By Rama’s hand, Viradha, that ferocious demon, was cast into the realm of death. Would the fate of Ravana be any different? The sea may encircle Lanka, but Rama’s divine arrows know no boundary, no restraint! The power of Rama shall lay waste to this demon realm in but a moment.”
“Fools! If only Rama knew my plight, you would not be standing here! It was the noble Jatayu who could have borne word to my lord, but that valorous bird fell to Ravana’s merciless wrath. Yet, though slain, his sacrifice shall be immortalized in the annals of time. Were Rama aware of my captivity, Lanka would already be naught but ash. The ocean itself would be drained, its waters vanquished by the fire of his wrath. Soon, as I weep in sorrow, so too shall the women of Lanka wail for their fallen men. When Rama and Lakshmana march upon this city, the very shadows shall shrink in dread.”
A smirk of defiance graced her lips. “Listen well, O wretches! Your days are numbered. Lanka shall be a burial ground, its treasures an offering to the flames of destruction. The omens have spoken; the hour of Ravana’s fall is nigh. Soon, his name shall be but a whisper of disgrace upon the wind. The great reckoning approaches, and none shall escape its tide.”
Her voice rang like a clarion bell. “Yet, Rama’s wrath shall not spill the blood of the innocent. The virtuous, the aged, and the helpless shall remain untouched. But as for your king, his fate is sealed. His downfall is written in the heavens. Even now, can you not hear the cries of doom echoing through the very walls of Lanka? The splendour of this city shall be eclipsed by darkness, and its grandeur shall crumble like dust.”
“The moment Rama learns of my plight shall mark the last fortnight of Ravana’s reign. His cruelty has set the hour of my torment, but it shall recoil upon him and consume his life, his wealth, his glory. The demons, untouched by virtue, have summoned their doom—Rama and Lakshmana shall descend upon them like the storm of destiny. My death is not theirs to decree; the feast they anticipate shall turn to poison in their throats. My only prayer is that Rama be made aware of my suffering ere it is too late.”
A final breath of resolve escaped her lips. “Even Yama, the Lord of Death, awaits the command of Rama. Lakshmana, guided by his brother’s wisdom, scours the earth for me. My lord shall not depart this world without my rescue! The celestial hosts and the sages await his decree. Mark my words! Your salvation lies not with Ravana, but with Rama. His grace may yet redeem you—but should you persist, Lakshmana’s wrath shall not be stayed. Ravana’s tricks shall falter; his magic shall wane. Only a fleeting lapse of my lord’s vigilance has allowed your king to draw breath—but his hour is near.”
And thus, the bold utterances of Sita, radiant in their truth, sent ripples through the darkened minds of the demon throng. Fear crept into their hearts, for even in her despair, she stood unyielding—a beacon of faith, a harbinger of fate’s decree. Darkness would cede to light, desolation to deliverance, and time itself would unravel the grandeur of Lanka, turning its riches to ruin.
