The golden chariot of Ravana soared high above the forests, carrying the weeping Sita far from her beloved Rama. Her cries echoed through the sky, stirring the winds and shaking the trees.
“O Rama! O Lakshmana! Save me!” she called, her voice breaking with sorrow.
The earth heard her cries, the rivers shivered, and the birds flew in fear. Yet, there was one noble soul who heard and rose with the courage of a lion — Jatayu, the mighty king of vultures, old but brave, a friend of Dasharatha and guardian of the skies.
With wings spread wide, Jatayu soared into the sky, his sharp eyes blazing with fury. He flew straight toward Ravana, his heart burning with the fire of justice.
“O Ravana!” Jatayu roared. “Release Sita, O wicked king! How dare you steal the wife of Rama, the noblest of men? You invite your own doom!”
Ravana laughed, his ten heads gleaming with pride. “Old bird, dare not cross my path. I am Ravana, lord of Lanka, feared by gods and demons alike. Turn back, or I shall destroy you.”
But Jatayu knew no fear. “I care not for your might. As long as life breathes in me, I shall fight to protect Sita.”
With a mighty cry, Jatayu attacked. His wings beat like thunder, his sharp claws tore through Ravana’s armor, and his beak struck like a spear. The skies shook with the clash of bird and demon.
Ravana, enraged, drew his sword — a weapon blessed with dark power. With a cruel swing, he struck Jatayu’s wings, slicing them apart. The brave bird cried out, his mighty form tumbling from the sky like a falling star.
Sita wept, her heart breaking at the sight. “O noble Jatayu, protector of dharma! Your sacrifice shall never be forgotten.”
Bleeding and broken, Jatayu fell to the earth, his eyes still searching the skies for Rama — hoping, praying that his sacrifice would not be in vain.
Ravana, his pride burning brighter, soared away with Sita — carrying her across mountains and oceans, until at last, they reached the golden gates of Lanka.
There, within the lush gardens of Ashoka Vatika, he imprisoned Sita, surrounding her with cruel Rakshasis who whispered threats and temptations. But Sita sat alone beneath a tree, her face pale, her heart steady. Her soul belonged to Rama, and no power on earth could steal it away.
Ravana approached, his voice soft with false sweetness. “O Sita, forget the forest, forget your Rama. Be my queen, and all of Lanka shall bow at your feet.”
But Sita’s eyes blazed like fire. “I am Rama’s wife, and Rama’s alone. Not even the lord of the heavens could sway me from my path.”
Ravana’s face darkened with rage. “So be it! You shall have one year. If Rama does not come, I shall make you mine by force.”
Sita bowed her head, but in her heart, a silent prayer rose — a prayer carried by the wind, across forests and rivers, across mountains and skies — to Rama, who would surely come.
And so, the brave Jatayu lay upon the earth, waiting to tell his tale, while Sita sat in the garden of sorrow, holding onto hope, as the world held its breath for what was yet to come