She gazed upon Rāvaṇa, whose brilliance radiated from the forefront of his magnificent palace. Seated among his ministers, he appeared as resplendent and commanding as Indra amidst the Maruts. Rāvaṇa occupied a supreme golden throne, its lustre rivaling the sun, set upon a golden platform that blazed like a living fire. None could conquer him in dreadful battle—not gods, Gandharvas, spirits, nor the greatest of sages. He sat, terrifying as Death itself with its gaping maw. His mighty chest bore scars—marks left by the thunderbolt and lightning from fierce battles with gods and demons, and the deep impression of Airāvata’s tusks. He was a sight both awe-inspiring and fearsome: twenty arms, ten heads, adorned in splendid attire, broad-chested, heroic, and bearing all the marks of royalty. Rāvaṇa’s body glittered with ornaments as radiant as cat’s-eye gems and heated gold. His arms were strong, his teeth white, his mouth wide, and his form vast as a mountain. In countless great battles, he had been struck by Viṣṇu’s discus and other divine weapons, yet his limbs remained unbroken. Such was his power that he could stir even the unshakable oceans. Mighty beyond measure, he could hurl mountain peaks, crush the gods, destroy righteousness itself, and violate the wives of others. Master of all celestial weapons, he was ever the disturber of sacrifices. He had conquered Vāsuki and entered the fabled city of Bhogavatī, defeated Takṣaka and seized his beloved wife, and, after conquering Naravāhana, reached the heights of Mount Kailāsa. He claimed the wondrous, wish-fulfilling Puṣpaka chariot and took possession of the divine forests of Caitraratha, Nalinī, and Nandana. In his wrath, he laid waste to the gardens of the gods and, with his immense strength, restrained even the Sun and Moon, holding them back with arms like mountain peaks. He had performed severe austerities for ten thousand years in the vast forest. Long ago, in the time of Svayambhu, this steadfast one had severed the heads of gods, demons, gandharvas, piśācas, birds, and serpents alike. In battle, Rāvaṇa feared no one but a human. Praised with mantras by the twice-born at sacred rites, he was considered auspicious by some, yet his deeds were dark. He was mighty, the taker of soma at offerings, but also the disruptor of sacrifices, wicked, a slayer of Brahmins, and cruel in his actions. Harsh and pitiless, he delighted in the suffering of beings, bringing terror to all creatures and all the worlds. It was this cruel and mighty brother that the rākṣasī beheld—adorned with celestial garments and ornaments, shining with divine garlands. Seated upon his throne, he seemed the very embodiment of Death arisen at the appointed hour: the illustrious king of the rākṣasas, the great and noble descendant of the Paulastya line. Trembling with fear, the rākṣasī approached. She stood before Rāvaṇa, the destroyer of enemies, who was surrounded by his counselors. Her eyes wide and blazing, Śūrpaṇakhā—disfigured yet undaunted—revealed her terror, her greed, and her delusion, speaking the most dreadful words. Now listen to the thirty-third sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. Śūrpaṇakhā, distressed and angry, spoke harsh words to Rāvaṇa, the terror of the worlds, in the midst of his ministers. “Absorbed in pleasures, unrestrained and self-willed, you fail to see the dreadful danger that has arisen. A king who is attached to base enjoyments, ruled by desire and greed, is not respected by his people—just as the fire of a cremation ground is disregarded. “A king who neglects his duties at the proper time perishes, along with his kingdom and all his responsibilities. People avoid a king who is careless with his spies, difficult to approach, and lacking in self-control, just as elephants avoid a muddy riverbank. Kings who do not protect their realms and lack self-mastery do not shine with prosperity, just as mountains are hidden beneath the sea. “How will you, lacking proper intelligence and stability, stand as king when opposed by gods, gandharvas, and demons who are wise and self-possessed? You, Rākṣasa, are childish in nature and lacking in wisdom; you do not know what must be known—how then can you be king? Kings whose spies, treasury, and policy are not under their control are no different from ordinary men, O best of conquerors. “Kings are called ‘far-sighted’ because, through their intelligence agents, they perceive dangers even at a distance. But I see that you do not employ such spies, and are surrounded by ordinary counselors. You do not realize that your own people and Janasthāna have been destroyed. Fourteen thousand rākṣasas of terrible deeds have been slain by Rāma alone, along with Khara and Dūṣaṇa. He has granted safety to the sages, the Daṇḍaka forest is now secure, and Janasthāna has been violated by Rāma, who acts tirelessly. “But you, O Rākṣasa, are greedy, careless, and dependent on others; you do not perceive the danger that has arisen in your own realm. No beings rush to a king who is harsh, gives little, is careless, arrogant, and deceitful, when he is in distress. Even his own people destroy a king who is excessively proud, unapproachable, self-conceited, and angry, when he is in trouble. He who neglects his duties and does not fear in times of danger quickly loses his kingdom, becomes miserable, and is regarded as worthless as grass.