With the grace of the forest whispering its secrets, Sugreeva, the exiled king of the Vanaras, stood resolute, his heart swelling with confidence. “All my fears are now dispelled,” he declared. “O Rama! With folded hands, I beseech thee to hasten the downfall of Vali and restore unto me my rightful dominion.”
Rama, the scion of virtue and unwavering commitment, gazed upon Sugreeva with warmth and spoke thus: “O King of Kishkindha! Thou art to me as Lakshmana himself. Go forth now to thy city. Walk ahead of me and summon thy brother to battle. I shall observe from the shadowed depths of the forest and intervene at the opportune moment.”
Thus emboldened by Rama’s presence, Sugreeva summoned all his strength. Roaring like a lion, his challenge thundered across the land, reverberating through the valleys like the sky’s own wrathful voice.
Vali, startled by this defiant cry, emerged from his palace like the sun rising from the ocean’s depths. In an instant, he leaped forth, closing the distance between them with the swiftness of a tempest. Then began a battle most fearsome—a contest of sheer might, where dust swirled like drifting clouds, and blows fell like lightning upon the earth. Neither warrior faltered in ferocity, yet in skill and mastery, Vali proved the superior. With fists as unyielding as iron, he struck Sugreeva down.
Rama, bow in hand, stood poised to strike, yet he hesitated. For before him stood not two foes, but two brothers, alike as the twin Ashwini Kumaras of the heavens. How could he unleash his arrow when the righteous and the unrighteous were indistinguishable? And so, he withheld his hand.
Sugreeva, bruised and bloodied, his strength spent, fled to Mount Rishyamuka, the only refuge where Vali dared not follow. As he gasped for breath, relief and anguish warred within him—he had escaped, but where was Rama’s promised aid?
Vali, his fury yet unquenched, pursued him for a time, then halted. “Thou art spared for today,” he declared before turning back to his palace.
Meanwhile, Sugreeva returned to Rama, his countenance shadowed with humiliation. Bowing his head, he spoke with sorrowful reproach. “O Rama! Was it not thee who bid me call mine enemy forth? Why then didst thou forsake me? Hadst thou declared beforehand that thou wouldst not slay Vali, I would never have roused false hope within mine heart.”
At this, Rama, touched by Sugreeva’s grief, answered with gentle yet firm words: “O noble Sugreeva! Banish from thy heart both anger and doubt, and hearken to my reason. Know that between thee and thy brother, no mortal eye could discern a difference. In form, in swiftness, in strength, in voice, ye are as one. Had I loosed mine arrow blindly, I might have struck thee instead, and such a grievous folly would stain mine honor forever. It is a sin most dire to slay the assured in error. Nay, my friend, upon thee rests our hope—thou art our beacon in this venture.
Go now once more and summon Vali again. This time, I shall not waver. But to spare thee from misfortune, let a mark be set upon thee, so that my aim shall be true.”
Turning to Lakshmana, Rama commanded, “Let this garland of forest blossoms be bound around Sugreeva’s neck, that he may stand apart in the heat of battle.”
Lakshmana, ever swift in duty, adorned Sugreeva with a wreath of crimson flowers, the hues of which blazed like a storm-lit sky. Thus marked, Sugreeva’s confidence was rekindled, and he set forth once more towards Kishkindha, where his fate awaited.
Rama, bow in hand, followed behind, Lakshmana at his side. Behind them strode the mighty Hanuman, the unfailing force of wisdom and strength; Nala, swift as the rushing wind; Neela, towering and unshaken; and Tharana, a warrior unmatched. Together, they traversed lands resplendent in nature’s bounty—rivers gleaming like molten silver, trees heavy with golden fruit, and mountains draped in emerald green.
As they passed shimmering lakes adorned with ruby-like lotus buds, they beheld flocks of swans and herons gliding upon the waters while deer and stags grazed unafraid upon the grassy meadows. Mighty elephants, their tusks white as moonlight, roamed the land while troops of monkeys leaped and played among the towering trees.
Presently, Rama’s gaze fell upon a dense and sacred grove, shrouded in mystery. “Behold, Sugreeva!” he said, “This place is veiled in divine splendor, its trees laden with fruit, its fragrance sweet upon the air. Tell me, what is its lore?”
Sugreeva, reverent, answered, “O Rama, this is no ordinary woodland. Once, it was the hermitage of the Seven Sages—Saptajanu—who, through their peerless penance, transcended this realm. For seven days they meditated, standing upon the waters, breathing only on the eighth. Thus did they ascend to the celestial plane. Their presence lingers still, and no god, demon, or beast may set foot here unbidden. Any creature that wanders within vanishes without a trace.
Often have I heard the echoes of celestial melodies, the tinkle of anklets, the murmur of unseen voices. Even now, the sacred fires—Dakshinagni, Garhapathya, and Avahaneeya—burn with undying grace. See how their smoke, tinged with the hues of rare herbs, rises gently, bathing the treetops in a golden glow, like a garland of cat’s-eye gems upon the mountain’s crest.”
Hearing this, Rama and Lakshmana bowed low in reverence, their hearts uplifted in devotion. “O noble sages,” they prayed, “bless our endeavor and guide our path.”
With spirits renewed, the warriors pressed onward. Their journey, a tapestry woven of valor, devotion, and destiny, led them ever closer to the gates of Kishkindha. The battle yet to come was but a thread in the grand design—an unfolding saga where righteousness, courage, and the will of the cosmos converged.
