The son of Vāyu, with keen vision and a heart full of wisdom, beheld Rāma—the one of lotus-petal eyes, master of bow, tranquil like the moon in still waters—and, bowing low with folded hands, spoke with reverence. O Rāma! Thou hast begun what none dared, and by thy strength and resolve, thou hast fulfilled the impossible for Sita. Now she longs to behold thee. The tidings of thy victory filled her eyes with joy and tears alike. When I told her of thy triumph, her heart was bathed in faith, and she desired at once to see thee, along with Lakshmana. Hearing this, Rāma’s eyes moistened; thoughtfulness overtook him. After long silence, he sighed, and turning to the cloud-hued Vibhishana, said: Let Sita be brought here, bathed in sacred waters, adorned with fragrance and bright silk, in garments fit for a queen.
Vibhishana, in haste, summoned the ladies of his inner court and sought Sita’s leave to convey the message. Bowing with joined palms, he said: O noble lady, Rāma desires to see thee in splendour and purity—bathe, adorn thyself, and go to thy lord. But Sita, with simple heart, replied: I would rather behold him now, just as I am. Yet he advised her gently: It is better to honour his word, though the choice rests with thee. As a mark of devotion, she consented, and bathing in strict observance, she clothed herself in the finest of silks, with ornaments modest and dignified, and emerged in a veiled palanquin toward the camp of her lord.
Though Rāma knew of her coming, he kept silent and turned his gaze aside. The Rakshasa king then announced humbly: O Rāma, the daughter of Janaka stands at thy threshold. At once, a storm of emotions surged within Rāma—wrath, grief, relief—all blending in such measure that he appeared not the divine hero, but a man overtaken by the burdens of destiny. His joy clouded, his face stern, he spoke to Vibhishana: ‘You always desire my success, noble king.’ Let her come forward. He then ordered the guards to clear the crowds. In their zeal, the guards shoved the gathered hosts, and the simian warriors cried out, trampled and alarmed, as if the sea itself had broken its bounds and howled at the shore.
Vibhishana, adhering to royal custom, instructed that no commoner should witness the queen descending from her palanquin. But Rāma, eyes flashing like fire, cried: Why do you offend these noble ones? Cease at once! They are mine—my dear ones. Palaces, silks, ornaments, veils—all these do not guard purity; only conduct does. When loved ones are lost, when kingdoms are shaken, during battle, in self-choice of husbands, in solemn sacrifices, and in marriage rites, women may be seen. Such moments are sanctified by time and dharma. Sita, in peril, had endured captivity; what shame is there now? And above all, she comes to me, her lord. Let her walk forth in the sight of these loyal ones, these Vanaras.
These words, though strange to many, came from the depths of Rāma’s heart. Vibhishana, bowing low, guided Sita forward. Yet Lakshmana, Hanumān, Sugriva, and all champions stood troubled. For Rāma’s visage bore no joy—his demeanour was aloof, his tone sharp, not what one would expect from a loving husband. They watched in sorrowful silence, uncertain of the storm within him. Sita, trembling, her spirit bruised by humiliation, walked forth. Yet when her eyes fell upon Rāma, she saw the same noble light, like moonrise after long drought. Without hesitation, she stood before him.
Rāma, observing the gentle, steadfast Sita, spoke—soft, yet with steel beneath. O virtuous one, I have conquered the foe. I have reclaimed thee by my own strength. Wrath is spent, honour restored, insult wiped away. My vow fulfilled, I stand free. The demon carried thee off when I was absent, but my effort has straightened the crooked will of fate. Let none say I lacked resolve. Let none mock my mind as feeble. The mighty Hanuman crossed the ocean, and a bridge was cast upon the sea. Sugriva’s wisdom bore fruit. Vibhishana’s desertion of his wicked kin brought good fortune. The task is complete.
Sita listened, her eyes like those of a startled doe, glistening with tears, troubled by these strange and sharp words. For Rāma stood near, her very breath and being, yet spoke like a stranger torn between the man and the king. In the presence of Rakshasas, Vanaras, and devoted allies, Rāma continued: In the desire to uphold my honour, I struck down Ravana. I resolved to remove the stain cast by his hand. By the grace of Agastya and the strength of penance, I shattered his southern fortress and cast him into ruin. This war, these efforts, these glories—they were not for thee. They were to uphold the fame of the Ikṣvāku line. I sought to preserve the name of Raghu. I stand vindicated. That alone was my aim.
Thou standest now before me, emerging from the abode of another, even if by force. This thought, this shadow, scorches my eyes as though I gaze into the burning sun. Therefore, Sita, I permit thee: go wherever thou wilt. O pious woman, I have no claim upon thee. A man of noble birth does not accept a woman who has dwelt in another’s house. However great her lineage, however pure her soul, the world casts blame. The glances of men pierce sharper than arrows. Thy beauty, thy grace—these incited Ravana. Know this, and understand why I refuse thee now. Go where thou choosest—be it with Lakshmana, Bharata, Śatrughna, Sugriva, or Vibhishana. My words are not of passion; they are deliberate. I release thee from all ties.
These cruel words fell like thunder upon the soft ears of Janaka’s daughter. She, who had known only tenderness from her lord, now stood shattered. Like a delicate vine torn from its root by the charge of an elephant, she trembled. Tears welled in her eyes. Her limbs faltered. Her heart broke—not from his anger, but from his withdrawal. For fate, though divine in meaning, speaks oft in voices harsh and cold. And thus, Rāma, in his greatness, delivered the world a lesson—wrapped in the bitter cloth of sorrow, yet stitched with eternal purpose.
