In the days when dharma still wore the armor of kingship, the son of Daśaratha, Rāma the righteous, walked upon the shoulders of Mountain Suvela. Beside him strode Sugrīva, lord of the vānaras, and around them surged a multitude of monkey warriors whose forms shadowed the earth like clouds before a storm. From the circled heights, Rāma cast his gaze in all directions, but it was southward that his eyes came to rest—where the golden marvel of Viśvakarmā stood: Laṅkā, the city divine in splendor and demonic in soul, shimmering in the folds of sorcery and arrogance.
And there, on the ramparts of his palace, seated with the ease of one who knew neither fear nor shame, was Rāvaṇa, king of the night. Around him moved celestial maidens, fanning him with delicate arms, while rakṣasa guards held the imperial umbrella high over his head. His countenance was like a thundercloud dipped in red dye, his body lathered in red sandals, exuding fragrance that rode the breeze to kiss the mountain heights. Adorned in garlands of rubies, corals, and gems aflame, his garments were stitched with the golden boasts of his past victories.
Marks of divine wrath—tusks of Airāvata, the thunderbolt of Indra, the disc of Viṣṇu, and the talons of Garuḍa—lined his chest like inscriptions upon stone, testifying to wars survived and glories claimed. His ornaments blazed like sun-rays trapped in twilight, and his very presence cast a shadow that disturbed the winds.
Then, as if Time had paused to witness fury, the son of Aditya, Sugreeva, sprang into the sky, his blood rising like the tide. Swift as a storm, he landed upon the ramparts where Rāvaṇa sat, and with the wrath of justice long restrained, he confronted the demon king. “I am the servant and friend of the Lord of Worlds, Rāma,” he thundered, and leapt upon Rāvaṇa, tearing away his crown, crushing it underfoot, shattering pride with steel resolve.
The demon, startled, roared back to himself, then rose like a mountain loosed from its roots. “You are but Sugrīva’s equal, nothing more,” he bellowed. “Now, nameless and broken, you shall fall!” He seized Sugreeva, hurled him with monstrous strength—but Sugreeva wrestled back, and the duel began: fists like boulders, arms like tusks of elephants, bodies colliding like cyclones. The sky seemed to tremble with their strife.
They circled, they grappled, they rose and fell—tiger cubs in war-play, elephant calves locked in youthful rage. No breath, no rest; only skill and fury, raw and ancient. At last, Sugrīva lifted Rāvaṇa, dashed him to the earth, but withheld the fatal blow, remembering that Rāma alone must end the tyrant. With one last defiant look, he soared back to Suvela.
Rāma received him with both pride and warning. “O king of monkeys, your courage outshines the sun, but you risk all that stands upon your life. If you had fallen, the sun would lose its shine, for without you, neither Sītā, nor Bharata, nor I could breathe. You are meant to reign, not to chase hazard.”
Sugrīva bowed. “O Rāma,” he said, “at the sight of that vile captor of Sītā, all I knew was vengeance.” The vānaras roared in admiration of their king’s daring. Then Rāma turned to Lakṣmaṇa. “Arrange the army. The winds speak of war; the mountains shake; the sky wears the red of omen. Birds weep. The sun flickers with shadow. All signs speak: doom descends.”
At once, the army readied. Rāma, armed in divine bow and arrow, stood at the van. Sugrīva, Hanumān, Vibhīṣaṇa, Jāmbavān, Nala, Nīla, and Lakṣmaṇa followed, their eyes like twin suns. Behind them surged the bear and monkey hosts, a living flood covering earth and sky, bearing stones, trees, maces—an army of mountains in motion.
The city of Laṅkā, with its spires and flags, stood trembling. Vānaras climbed its towers, tore down its colors. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa blocked the gates; no exit, no escape. The city’s northern wall, bound by ocean and guarded by monstrous forces, Rāma approached. At the eastern gate stood Sugrīva with Nīla and Mainda; at the south, Angada with his titans; at the west, Hanumān with Prājāṅgha and Tarāśu. Laṅkā was encircled by might.
Inside, the demons trembled. Their roars turned to cries, for the sky itself seemed to fall. Rāma, master of dharma and diplomacy, summoned Angada. “Go,” he said, “to Rāvaṇa. Deliver my message: O king of wicked counsel, your time is done. Your pride, once guarded by Brahmā’s boon, shall now break before righteousness. Return Sītā with honor, or see your city fall, your body perish, and your soul face justice.”
Bearing this fire of words, Angada flew, landing before Rāvaṇa. “I am Angada, son of Vāli,” he proclaimed. “Rāma commands: surrender Sītā, or fall. Your wickedness has brought ruin upon you.” Enraged, Rāvaṇa ordered him seized—but Angada threw the guards like twigs, scaled the citadel, shattered its towers, seized demons by the herd, and cast them down to death.
Returning to Rāma, he bowed. Rāvaṇa, watching from below, felt the first tremor of true fear.
Then came the final march. Sugrīva, with Sushena, moved the troops. The walls of Laṅkā were lost beneath the wave of vānaras. Demons scrambled for arms; the heavens echoed with their cries. Rāma stood, bow in hand, and the world itself seemed to hold breath.
Now dharma, once cast in exile, returned in a storm. Now Laṅkā, once crowned in gold, would wear ashes for its diadem. The war of worlds had begun—and the avatar of righteousness marched at its head.
