The Storyteller's Lens

We speak of Raavan as one man. But what if he was never just one? Not ten heads as a symbol…but ten voices. Not all of them loud.

Jata kata hasambhrama bhramanilimpanirjhari,
Vilolavichivalarai virajamanamurdhani
Dhagadhagadhagajjva lalalata pattapavake,
Kishora chandrashekhare ratih pratikshanam mama

Bleeding or not… Soorpanakha knew better than to interrupt her brother during his morning puja.

Raavan’s devotion towards Mahadev was unparalleled. Lord Shiva was the only one the King of Lanka bowed to…though even in devotion there lingered a trace of arrogance.

It was not merely prayer. It was a declaration. 

Mahadev… I, Raavan, your greatest bhakt, stand before you.

The repeated clang of the bell echoed through the palace temple as the aarti came to an end.

“Hara hara Mahadeva Sambho Sankara!”

The final chant rolled through the corridors like thunder.

Raavan stepped out. His eyes landed on his sister.

The bleeding nose. The mutilated ears.

Fury darkened his face instantly, marring the Tripundra spread across his broad forehead.

“Who?”

“A kshatriya prince.”

****

A mere prince had dared to harm Raavan’s sister. So here he was. Raavan himself. In the forest. Burning with fury. To avenge.

Warriors disguised as rishis, Soorpanakha had called them. Ram and Lakshman. He knew of them. Ram, the prince who had won Sita’s hand in the swayamvar.

Warrior or rishi, it did not matter.

He was here to…His thoughts stopped. Completely.

The morning mist still clung to the forest floor, drifting in pale ribbons through a wide clearing. Shafts of sunlight pierced the dense canopy overhead, illuminating drifting dust and damp earth. 

And in the center of that clearing…stood a woman. Perfectly balanced. A longsword gleaming in her hand.

Stillness shattered.

She lunged forward, the blade slicing through the humid air with a sharp metallic hiss. Her movements flowed in seamless succession…slashes, pivots, guards, strikes…as though invisible enemies surrounded her from all sides.

“Janakanandini…”

The whispered word escaped him before he realized it.

Bare feet pressed firmly against moss and damp leaves, shifting effortlessly with every movement.

She wore a simple beige cotton saree…the kind women in ashrams wore…but tucked tightly for movement. Her hair sat in a practical knot.

And yet…she looked ethereal. Not delicate. Not soft. Dangerous.

The steel flashed silver in the filtered sunlight, leaving arcs of light in the dim forest air.

“Mine.”

The voice of desire rose first. Sharp. Immediate.

Another followed close behind. “Another man has this.” Jealousy burned through him.

“How?” Ahankara demanded. “How does a mere prince possess what Raavan does not?”

His gaze refused to leave her.

There was no wasted movement in the way she fought. Every strike flowed into another. Every defense became an attack.

“She belongs on a throne,” Mada declared smoothly. “Not in a forest.”

Buddhi spoke quietly. “Leave.” The voice was calm. Almost detached. “This path ends badly.”

But the others had already begun to rise.

“She should belong to you.”

“How dare another man touch what should have been yours?”

“How dare he stand above Raavan in anything?”

His feet moved before thought fully formed. Invisible. Silent.

The forest held only the rhythm of her breathing and the whistling song of steel. Sweat trailed slowly down her neck, catching sunlight as she moved. As though sensing something, she frowned slightly, her sharp gaze sweeping through the trees without lowering her sword.

Raavan smiled. Admiration flickered through him. Then possession swallowed it whole.

“This is no mere desire.” Moha finally spoke. Soft. Reasonable. Dangerous. “She does not know you yet.”

Everything else quietened.

“She knows only a wandering prince,” the voice continued gently. “A man in exile. A life in the forest.”

Raavan’s breathing slowed.

“Yes…” Manas whispered uncertainly.

“She has not seen Lanka.”

“She has not seen power.”

“She has not seen you.”

The thought settled into Chitta like poison sinking into water. Steady. Certain.

“Once she knew him…once she saw what he truly was…how could she refuse him?”

A victorious smile slowly curved his lips.

In that instant, Sita spun sharply on her heel, raising the sword into a fluid guard position. Attack and defense. Ready for both. Her eyes scanned the empty woods around her.

Unable to see him. Yet aware.

Raavan’s admiration deepened. Even caution looked beautiful on her.

“There is no reason for force,” Moha murmured.

“She will understand.”

All thoughts of revenge faded into the background. Soorpanakha. Lakshman. The insult. None of it mattered now.

Only Sita. Only possession. Only certainty.

“Janakanandini,” Raavan whispered, smoothing his moustache with the back of his hand. “You are destined to be my queen.”

He looked around once more. No sign of Ram. No sign of Lakshman. 

“No need to lift a weapon against the woman who would soon belong to you,” Buddhi spoke, adapting to the change…supporting the others. “There are gentler ways. Smarter ways.”

With another thorough look around, she drove the blade forward in a final, decisive thrust, freezing perfectly in place. The silence of the forest settling once more over the clearing.

Then she heard it.

“Bhavati bhiksham dehi!”