In grievous defiance of his noble lineage—born of the sage Visravasu—the demon-king Ravana descended into the dark caverns of sorcery. He embraced black magic, wielded heinous illusions, and spun a web of vile deceits. By conjuring a false vision of Rama’s severed head, he dared to violate the sacred bond between the living and the dead, seeking to crush the spirit of Janaka’s virtuous daughter.
Such venomous vengeance, so unnatural and wicked, finds no echo in the long scrolls of ancient history.
Sita, with a mind gentle as moonlight and a heart steeped in piety, beheld the ghastly illusion. She saw the head, the bow, the noble features—all matching her lord. Her soul reeled beneath the weight of grief. Hanuman’s earlier tale of Rama and Sugriva returned to her memory, now strangely mirrored by Ravana’s words, sharpening her torment and inner conflict.
In anguish, she cast blame upon Kaikeyi—the root, she thought, of all misfortune. That desire to unseat and divide the royal line had borne its cursed fruit. Rama, once the beacon of righteousness, had vanished into shadow. Her trembling limbs collapsed beneath sorrow. She cried out to the prince who had upheld the world’s virtue: “You, protector of the brave—how have you come to this?”
She recalled an old belief—that a wife’s misfortune may bring ruin upon her husband. “O Rama,” she wept, “was I the cause of thy fall?” Her thoughts drifted to Kausalya, mother of her lord, who now, like a sacred cow robbed of its calf, would mourn in silence. She remembered the sages who once prophesied long life for Rama—how cruelly time had mocked them.
“You, knower of dharma,” she whispered to the phantom head, “how could you fall into sleep and let evil find its mark? How did such wickedness overtake you, whose eyes were like lotus petals, whose awareness never faltered?”
She reached for the bow—golden, flower-strewn, ever cherished. She had adorned it with sandalwood paste, while Rama offered blossoms to it in worship. “O Dasaratha’s flawless son,” she cried, “perhaps now you dwell in the heavenly realms with your ancestors. Yet you have abandoned your earthly vow, your promise made to me in youth—to perform each sacred rite with me by your side.”
In anguish, she begged for death. “O Ravana,” she wailed, “unite me with Rama—redeem thy sins through this act. Sever my head from this sorrowful frame!”
As her lament continued, a demon guard approached the false vision of Rama and bowed, hailing him as king. He announced the summons of the ministers and the commander Prahastha, who awaited his presence. At once, Ravana departed the Ashoka grove.
No sooner had he gone than the illusion vanished—the bleeding head and sacred bow dissolved like mist before the sun.
In the war-council chamber, Ravana, ever prideful, gave swift command: the army must be summoned in secret. Trumpets, conches, war drums filled the air, but none knew the king’s true intent. The demon host gathered swiftly.
Meanwhile, Sita lay in bewilderment, covered in dust and sorrow, her face streaked with tears like a goddess of despair. Her loyal companion Sarama, moved by pity, approached her gently. Having heard Ravana’s cruel deceit while hidden in invisibility, Sarama now spoke with soothing truth.
“Sita,” she said, “do not fall prey to grief. Rama lives—unharmed, undefeated. Not even demons can reach him in sleep. As Devendra is shielded by gods, so is Rama protected by mighty simian warriors. He has crossed the ocean and stands now at Lanka’s threshold with Lakshmana by his side. The demon king tried to break your spirit with illusion, but the truth prevails.”
Sarama’s voice carried hope: “War preparations fill the air. Hear the drums, the conches, the thunderous hoofbeats. The elephants are arrayed, the war horses harnessed, the chariots drawn forth. The armies of Rama blaze like fire upon the horizon.”
Steel clashed and banners danced in sunlight. Shields and tridents glimmered. The very air trembled with the sound of destiny approaching. Sarama continued, “Your sorrow shall soon be soothed. Rama comes not as a mere prince but as a divine force—like rain upon parched earth.”
“O Sita,” she said, “lift your prayers to the sun, the eternal witness. He brings light to all life. From despair you shall rise to joy, from fear to courage, from darkness to union. The tide turns swiftly now. The hour of Ravana’s end is near. The battle for dharma surges forward with the thunder of divine justice.”
