With anguish and sorrow, Mandodari, the queen of Lanka, gazed upon the fallen form of her husband, Ravana. She remembered how his eyes once rolled with intoxication, wandering through drinking halls, adorned with garlands and charms, his sweet smiles and delightful speech captivating all who saw him. That very face, once radiant and alluring, now lay bloodied and pierced by Rama’s arrows, streams of gore flowing from his wounds, its former brilliance extinguished. His flesh and brain shattered, his body rough with the dust of the chariot, Mandodari lamented her final state, feeling the misery of widowhood descend upon her. She reflected bitterly on her foolishness, never realizing the limits of her pride: her father was king of the Danavas, her husband lord of the Rakshasas, and her son Indrajit, conqueror of Indra. She had been exceedingly proud, believing herself protected by fierce destroyers of arrogant foes, renowned for their strength and valor. She had been firmly convinced that she was surrounded by guardians fearless from any quarter, so great was the power of her family, the foremost of Rakshasas. How, then, had this unforeseen fear arisen from a human, something she had never imagined? Ravana, deep blue as a sapphire and tall as a mountain, adorned with armlets, bracelets, cat’s-eye gems, pearl necklaces, and shining garlands, was handsome and radiant on the battlefield, surpassing all in play and splendor. His body, which once shone with the brilliance of ornaments like a rain cloud lit by lightning, was now covered with countless sharp arrows. Once difficult even to touch, it could no longer be embraced, pierced all over by arrows and ravaged like a carcass. Ravana lay deeply pierced in vital parts, his sinews and joints severed, dark and blood-stained, struck as if by a thunderbolt, scattered like a mountain. Mandodari wondered in disbelief whether this was a dream or reality—that Ravana had been slain by Rama. He who was death even to Death itself, the great terror and enjoyer of the wealth of the three worlds, had come under the power of death. Ravana, conqueror of the guardians of the worlds, assailant even of Shiva, subduer of the arrogant, whose valor was manifest, who disturbed the world and tore apart the virtuous, who spoke bold words before enemies—he who protected his own troops and servants, slew those of terrible deeds, destroyed thousands among the Danavas and Yakshas, subdued the Nivatakavachas in battle, ruined countless sacrifices, and protected his own people. He who broke the order of righteousness, created illusions in battle, abducted the daughters of gods, demons, and men again and again, brought grief to enemy women, led his own people, guarded the island of Lanka, and performed terrible deeds—he who granted pleasures and desires, the foremost among chariot-warriors—Mandodari now saw this mighty lord struck down by Rama. Despite her grief, Mandodari remained steadfast, bearing her body though her beloved was slain, remembering the luxurious beds she once shared with the lord of the Rakshasas. She wondered why he lay there asleep, covered in dust upon the earth, when their son Indrajit had been killed by Lakshmana in battle. Ravana had been struck down fiercely, and now had fallen, leaving Mandodari bereft of kinsmen and deprived of her protector. Deprived of pleasures and desires, Mandodari knew she would grieve for countless years, having entered a long and arduous path, so difficult to traverse. She pleaded for Ravana to take her also, afflicted by sorrow, declaring she could not live without him. Why, she asked, did he wish to leave her, wretched, and depart? Mandodari lamented that Ravana did not speak to her, miserable and feeble as she was, and wondered if he was angry, seeing her uncovered and unadorned. Having left the city gates, she had come on foot to his side, urging him to look upon his beloved wives, stripped of their modest veils. How did he not grow angry, seeing all his companions outside? This playmate of his, now without a protector, was lamenting, yet he did not comfort him nor value him. Many noble women had been made widows by Ravana. Devoted to their husbands, intent on righteousness, eager to serve elders, these women were afflicted by grief, cursed, and now fallen under another’s power. Wronged by Ravana, they had cursed him, and now that curse had come to pass. The rumor about him, Mandodari realized, was indeed true. It was not without cause that tears fell from the eyes of devoted wives upon the earth. How, Mandodari wondered, did Ravana conquer the worlds with his splendor? This petty act of stealing a woman was done by him, who prided himself on valor, by luring Rama away from the hermitage under the guise of a deer. Sita was brought to Lanka, and Lakshmana was separated, yet Mandodari had never recalled any cowardice from Ravana in battle. Surely, by a reversal of fortune, Ravana’s destiny had ripened; he, who knew past and future matters, and discerned the present. Seeing Maithili abducted, reflecting and sighing deeply, Mandodari remembered what her truthful, mighty-armed brother once said. Now destruction had come upon the foremost of Rakshasas, brought about by calamity arising from desire and anger. The purpose Ravana pursued had ended through his actions, bringing great ruin; he had made the entire Rakshasa clan bereft of support. Mandodari declared that Ravana was not to be mourned by her, renowned for strength and prowess, yet because of her womanly nature, her mind turned toward compassion. Ravana had met his fate, whether good or evil, and Mandodari grieved for herself, afflicted by his destruction.