शिवभक्ता शान्तिस्वरूपा, नारी धर्मे प्रतिष्ठिता।
पूर्वकाले गुणैर्युक्ता, ज्ञानेन दिव्यमानिता॥
"A devotee of Shiva, an embodiment of serenity,
Rooted in dharma, adorned with ancient grace,
In a time before time, she glowed with divine insight—
A woman of fire, yet unburnt."
A Long Time Before Time
The sky had turned indigo, kissed by the flames of a hidden sun. A cool breeze curled through the stone-pillared temples of Gandharva Kunda, nestled deep in the hills that would one day be forgotten by men. The Narmada flowed silently in the distance, her silver veins glinting through the forest foliage, and the mountain hummed with the pulse of a thousand chants whispered by sages of past kalpas.
In a secluded shrine carved into the heart of living stone, amidst lamps lit with cow ghee and the heady scent of wild tulsi, she sat.
A young woman.
Unmarried, untouched, unknown.
Clad in the simplest saffron, her eyes closed in deep dhyāna, she offered bilva leaves at the feet of a dark Shiva linga, ancient and uneven from the worship of yugas. Her lips moved softly with the mantra that echoed through her bones:
"Namah Shivaya... Namah Shivaya..."
She was Mandodari, but not yet the queen of Lanka. Not yet the wife of Ravana. Not yet the mourner of destiny.
Today, she was just Mandā, the daughter of Mayasura, a girl forged in tapasya and sculpted by devotion.
A raven cawed once from the doorway.
She opened her eyes.
And there he stood.
Old, ageless, and clothed in black—the air around him neither cold nor warm, but steeped in stillness.
His eyes glinted like onyx reflecting starlight, and a single feather was tucked into the folds of his robe.
He smiled—not kindly, but knowingly.
"You summon gods," he said, voice neither deep nor soft, "but instead, you have summoned a witness."
Mandodari rose slowly, her eyes unwavering. "Who are you, O traveler who speaks like wind wrapped in riddles?"
"I am but a crow, child. And a man. And something older than both."
He stepped into the temple, his gaze lingering on the flame before the linga.
"Your devotion trembles the very yugas, Mandodari."
Her name on his tongue felt like prophecy.
"I have not told you who I am."
"You have not," he replied, "and yet you always do. In every cycle, every telling. In some, you're a dancer. In others, a rebel. Here, you're a penitent."
She frowned. "You speak of cycles. Are you a Rishi? Or a trickster?"
The man—Kakbhushundi—tilted his head, the raven outside mirroring the gesture.
"I am both. And neither. I've seen the Ramayana play out more times than there are stars. Each time, it begins with a woman whose prayers ignite the war before it begins."
Mandodari's eyes narrowed. "Ramayana?"
"A tale of gods in human form. Of duty. Of longing. Of fire and ash. And you, O Mandodari, are destined to walk through its heart."
She stepped forward, heart pounding like a conch at war.
"Tell me. What am I to become?"
"The queen of Lanka. The wife of a titan who calls himself king. A mother. A mourner. A witness to glory and grief."
She laughed, bitter and young. "Wife of a king? I have offered my soul to Mahadev! My path is tapasya!"
Kakbhushundi's voice darkened like thunder in a summer sky.
"Even Sati walked into fire, and yet was born again as Parvati. Dharma bends, but it never breaks."
Mandodari clenched her fists. "Who is this man—this Ravana—you say I will marry?"
"A Brahmana by birth. A devotee of Shiva like you. A scholar. A warrior. A conqueror of worlds. And yet…"
He paused.
"And yet... he forgets humility. And in that forgetting, he drags a kingdom to ruin."
She turned to the Shiva linga, eyes wet.
"Then I shall change it. If I am to be queen, I shall guide him back."
"You will try," Kakbhushundi whispered. "In some versions, he listens. In others, he laughs. In one telling... he repents."
Mandodari looked up, startled. "Repents?"
"Yes," the sage said, slowly walking around the shrine. "On the battlefield, mortally wounded, ten heads bowed in dust, he chants Rama's name with tears in his eyes."
A long silence filled the temple, pierced only by the flickering of lamps.
"He sees Rama not as a man, but as the Eternal. He lets go of pride, accepts death, and merges into light."
Mandodari fell to her knees. "And me? Where am I in that telling?"
Kakbhushundi knelt beside her.
"You watch from afar, veiled in widowhood, yet unbroken. You sing Rama's name, not in hatred, but in understanding. For only you knew that even a demon could be a bhakta."
A tear rolled down her cheek, vanishing into the earth.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because, Mandodari," he said, rising once more, "you prayed for truth. And truth is not always what you expect."
She whispered, "Can I change it?"
He looked at her—tender, fierce, eternal.
"That is the question every soul asks."
The raven cawed again.
Kakbhushundi stepped back toward the doorway.
"Remember this: in all the Ramayanas I have seen, there is one thing stronger than fate—bhakti."
He vanished into the light, leaving behind only a single feather, caught in the soft wind rising from the inner sanctum.
*
Mandodari turned once more to the Shiva linga, her eyes reflecting both fire and surrender. Her voice, now a whisper woven into the silence of stars, trembled with ancient yearning.
And far beyond the veils of time—beyond the seven lokas and the rhythms of birth and death—another Ramayana stirred, unborn but waiting to be sung.
कालेन निहितं रहस्यं, भवस्य पथे सुसंस्थितम्।
या कथां स्फुरति चेतसि, सा लीलायाः नवाङ्कुरः॥
("Hidden by Time, sacred in the stream of becoming,
The tale that stirs in the heart is but the first sprout of a divine play.")
She whispered softly to the empty doorway, as the feather trembled near her feet:
"O Kakbhushundi, if there are more such visions... tell me."
And somewhere in the trees, unseen but watching, the crow paused upon a branch, eyes glinting with secrets not yet spoken.
He smiled. And the wind carried his answer in silence.