The mighty Ravana, sovereign of the rakshasas, sat in restless ire, vexed by the crude and audacious indignation of his sister, Surpanakha. His fiery eyes bore into her as he demanded:
“Who is this Rama? What strength does he possess? What manner of man is he in appearance? Why has he ventured into the impenetrable forest of Dandakaranya? And what weapons did he wield to annihilate our warriors—Khara, Dushana, and Trisira?”
Though angry and peevish, Surpanakha harbored a subtle satisfaction, knowing her role in instigating Rama’s wrath was momentarily obscured by Ravana’s interrogations. Composing herself, she began her account, weaving a nostalgic yet objective narrative:
“Rama, son of King Dasaratha, stands tall, slim, and sinewy, with arms of formidable might. His deep, lotus-like eyes and serene countenance radiate divine grace. Clad in the simple garb of a hermit—linen robes and deer skin—he bears the visage of Vishnu himself, with the charm of Manmadha. His bow, arched like a rainbow, unleashes arrows adorned with gold, each resembling a blazing serpent in flight.
So swift is his prowess that the eye cannot discern when his hand releases the arrow, and in an instant, his adversaries lie shattered. As Indra devastates fields with torrents of hailstones, so did Rama bring down hordes of demons, their bodies falling like withered leaves. With unparalleled valor, he alone, on foot, vanquished fourteen thousand rakshasas in the span of merely one hour and twelve minutes, fulfilling his vow to protect the hermits and their sacred rites.”
Surpanakha paused, her voice tinged with awe and resentment. “Yet, this great soul spared my life, for he refrains from harming women, even in anger. Beside him stands his brother, Lakshmana—equally mighty, steadfast, and devoted. His loyalty to Rama knows no bounds, and his fiery spirit and sharp intellect make him a force unparalleled. Lakshmana, Rama’s right hand and outer life, is as resolute as the mountains and as fierce as a raging storm.”
She then described Sita, her words laced with envy and admiration. “Rama’s wife, Sita, is a vision of unparalleled beauty. Her large, expressive eyes and moon-like face radiate charm and grace. Her lustrous hair, shapely nose, and golden complexion render her a goddess among mortals. She is Janaka’s daughter, the epitome of virtue and elegance, unmatched in beauty among humans, yakshas, or gandharvas. Any man beside her would surpass Indra himself in glory.
When I, with a thought for your honor, attempted to bring her to you, Lakshmana disfigured me in his wrath. O king of demons, one glance upon Sita’s celestial form will fill you with ecstasy. If my counsel pleases you, lift your mighty leg as a sign of resolve and set forth to claim her. Slay Rama and Lakshmana, avenge the rakshasas, and bring Sita to your harem. Weak and fragile as she is, she will not resist.”
Though Ravana knew her words were laced with exaggerations, for Akampana had already delivered a truthful account, he found himself swayed by Surpanakha’s persuasion. His restless spirit, fueled by desire and impulsive ambition, overshadowed his reason.
Yet, he resolved to summon his council of ministers, men of wisdom and expertise, to deliberate upon the risks and strategies of this endeavor. Thus, the wheels of fate began to turn, the threads of destiny entwining in cosmic balance, as the stage was set for the unfolding of divine will.