The Two Ends of One Story 

Every autumn, India lights up in celebration. First comes Dussehra, then Diwali — two festivals that seem separate, yet are really two parts of the same story.
Dussehra marks the day of battle, when Rama defeated Ravana and restored the balance of good and evil. Diwali follows as the homecoming, when Rama returned to Ayodhya and the city glowed with the light of welcome.
One celebrates the triumph itself. The other celebrates what follows: peace, hope, and renewal. 

Dussehra: The Moment of Courage 

Dussehra, or Vijayadashami, is the festival of courage and righteousness. Across India, the story takes different forms. In the north, towering effigies of Ravana burn against the night sky, while in the east, Goddess Durga’s victory over Mahishasura fills the air with devotion and pride.

Whether it is Rama or Durga, the message is the same: darkness must be faced before it can be overcome. Dussehra is that confrontation, the moment when courage rises, when good stands firm even in the shadow of fear. 

Diwali: The Return of Light 

Then comes Diwali, glowing with the memory of victory. The battle is over. The diyas are lit, and when Rama returns home, Ayodhya comes alive with celebration. Even today, homes across India sparkle with that same joy. Behind every flicker of a lamp lies a quiet prayer for peace after struggle, for warmth after distance, for light after dark. Diwali becomes a celebration of return, a reminder that joy always finds its way back. 

Between the Two 

Dussehra and Diwali are two breaths of the same rhythm — one exhaled in battle; the other inhaled in peace. Between them lies a pause, a time to reflect on what was lost and what was gained. Together, they tell a single story: victory is not the end, but the beginning of healing and gratitude. The light that shines during Diwali is born from the fire that burns on Dussehra night. 

The Story Within Us 

These festivals remind us that there is more than one way to see the same story. If we look closely, these festivals are not only about gods and demons. They are also about us. Every time we face a challenge, it is our own Dussehra — a fight against doubt, anger, or fear. Every time we rise again, with strength and kindness, it becomes our Diwali. Just as they show two moments in time, they invite us to keep renewing our own perspectives, to find new meanings and fresh hope in what surrounds us. The story repeats itself in our lives: darkness and light, struggle and renewal, fall and return. 

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The end of the monsoon has always been more than a shift in weather. It is a time when the skies open after months of storm, when myths, epics, and festivals converge to give meaning to the retreat of rain. For ancient India, the parting clouds were not just a natural occurrence but a chapter in a cosmic story. 

The Devas, the Asuras, and the Skies 

In Vedic hymns, Indra is praised as the lord of thunder and rain, the one who wields the vajra (thunderbolt). His most famous battle was against Vritra, the serpent-demon who held back the waters of the world. When Indra struck Vritra, the rivers and rains were released. Myths like these offered explanations for the cycle of rain and drought, flood and retreat. 

The end of monsoon, when the clouds scattered and the skies cleared, was often seen as Indra withdrawing after victory, taking his forces of rain back to the heavens. Alongside Indra stood Varuna, the god of oceans and cosmic order (rita). Varuna’s role was to ensure that the waters returned to their rightful places—the seas, rivers, and underground springs—after the season of excess rain. In folk belief, his steadying hand kept the floods from swallowing villages once the storm season was over. 

Natural imagery reinforced these myths. The rolling away of dark clouds was likened to an army in retreat, while the golden sunlight of Sharad (autumn) was seen as the radiance of the gods returning to earth. 

Epics and the Retreat of Rains 

The great epics paid close attention to the rhythm of the seasons. In the Ramayana, Rama waited through the monsoon months in Kishkindha, forging his alliance with the vanaras. Only after the rains ended could his army march towards Lanka and begin the great war. The clear skies marked a time of decisive action—a season of battles where dharma would triumph. 

In the Mahabharata, too, rains dictated the rhythm of war. Armies traditionally rested during the monsoon, when rivers swelled and chariots could not move. The Kurukshetra war began in late autumn, after the rainy season, a detail that reflects how deeply natural cycles shaped even epic storytelling. The departure of the rains was symbolically tied to moments of reckoning, conflict, and eventual renewal. 

Festivals of Transition 

As the monsoon retreated, festivals marked the shift from storm to clarity. 

Sharad Navratri (September–October): Nine nights of worship, ending in the victory of the goddess Durga over Mahishasura. The timing reflects a cosmic renewal after the cleansing rains. 

Dussehra (Vijayadashami): Celebrated at the end of Navratri, it recalls Rama’s victory over Ravana, linking the festival directly with the post-monsoon return of clarity and light. 

Diwali: The festival of lights, celebrated a few weeks later, marks Rama’s return to Ayodhya after fourteen years of exile. Lamps are lit not only to welcome him, but also to mark the joy of harvests ripening after the rains. 

Together, these festivals mirror the natural journey: from turbulence to triumph, from cleansing rains to abundant harvests. 

Songs, Folklore, and Beliefs 

The retreat of the monsoon has always been sung into memory. In the folk songs of North India, the clouds are imagined as weary travellers making their way back home, while the clear autumn moon is celebrated as a symbol of purity and peace. The Toda people of the Nilgiris tell of two divine beings, Kaarsh and Kawntaiahh, who brought the south-west monsoon to their land. Their very breaths created storms and rain, and the swirling mists around sacred peaks still mark the onset and retreat of the season. Such myths root the monsoon deeply in local landscapes, making weather itself a divine presence.  

In Maharashtra, ballads tell of Indra’s return to his heavenly palace, leaving behind a refreshed and fertile land. Even classical music echoes this change of season: while monsoon ragas like Megh Malhar are sung to invite rain, autumnal ragas such as Durga and Bhairav celebrate the calm clarity of retreating skies. Across regions, the end of the rains inspire art, ritual, and devotion—transforming a natural shift into a sacred story. 

The monsoon’s departure has never been just about weather. It was a reminder that all things, even the heaviest clouds, will pass, making way for new beginnings. Ancient India read the skies as a sacred text, where every season told a story. And just as our ancestors found meaning in the shifting clouds, we too can learn from nature’s lesson: change is not to be feared but welcomed, for with every ending, comes the promise of renewal. 

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The Uttara Kand in Valmiki’s Ramayana tells us the story of the twins’ naming. When Sita gave birth to her sons in Valmiki’s ashram, the other sages asked Valmiki to protect them from evil spirits, as was the custom in those days.

Valmiki then took Kusha grass and cut (lava) it into two parts. He then instructed that the elder child be cleaned with the upper part and be named Kusha, and the younger child be cleaned with the lower part and be called Lava. That is how Lava and Kusha got their names.

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During his exile, Rama once saw Agni, the fire god, in his dream. Agni told him that Ravana would carry Sita away, and it was Rama’s destiny to kill the evil asura king. He had a plan to keep Sita safe by replacing her with a phantom Sita. Without anyone’s knowledge, Sita entered the fire and was replaced by Mayasita. The unsuspecting Ravana carried Mayasita away. When the war was over, Agni returned the real Sita to Rama.

Mayasita, now abandoned by Rama, was at a loss. Rama and Agni told her to practice penance. So, she prayed to Shiva and, pleased by her devotion, he appeared before her. In her desire for a husband, Mayasita said “give me a husband” five times. Shiva granted her a boon, and said that in her next birth she would have five husbands. Thus, emerging from the fire one more time, Mayasita, born as Draupadi, got the five Pandavas as her husband.

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The Ashoka tree plays an important role in the Ramayana. It is the tree under which Sita spends her days after being abducted by Ravana. It is also the tree under which she meets Hanuman, bringing her news of Rama’s rescue. Here is an interesting legend behind the Ashoka tree.

Sashoka was a feared cannibal. He would roam the jungles everyday and attack any travellers he found and eat them. One day, he spotted a hut near the edge of the forest. Outside it, there was a sage meditating. Surprised by how still the sage sat, Sashoka went up to him. He asked the sage how he was so calm and said that he wanted to give up his restless life and become like the sage. To this the sage replied that he himself had taken many lifetimes to attain such a state. He blessed Sashoka and said that in his next life he would be born as a tree in Ravana’s garden. When Ravana would abduct Sita and keep her captive there, Hanuman would visit her and her grief would disappear. Then Sashoka would be liberated from his grief and be known as Ashoka, the remover of sorrow.

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Rudraksha means the tears of Rudra. For once, it is all in the name! From an evergreen tree found in the Himalayas and a few other mountains, these wrinkled brown seeds are said to have grown from the tears of Shiva himself.

Why did Shiva weep?

Some say that Shiva shed tears of ecstasy during meditation and these tears sprouted into the rudraksha trees when they touched the ground. Others believe that Shiva opened his eyes after several years of mediation and saw humanity suffering. Tears of compassion welled up in the divine eyes and wherever these tears fell, there budded the Rudraksha trees. Still, others maintain that these are tears of unimaginable grief, shed when Sati, Shiva’s beloved consort, was consumed in the ceremonial fire.

Another story links the tears of Shiva to the intense meditation he undertook to destroy three demons, the Tripurasuras. These demons lived in three floating Purams or cities and were protected by a boon from Brahma. They could only be destroyed when their cities came into a single axis, which happened once in a thousand years. Shiva destroyed the demons and liberated them with a single arrow. Maybe it was the intense concentration with which he focussed as he readied himself to aim at the cities that his half-closed eyes (Ardha Nimeelita neetra) watered and that created the rudraksha.

Ecstasy, compassion, grief or destruction for liberation, whatever be the cause of those tears, the rudraksha is considered to be imbued with energies that are physically curative and spiritually uplifting. It has a special place in Indian mythology. People wear it as a necklace, a bracelet, as earrings, use it like a rosary or japamala to count their prayers or just treasure the fact that they own one.

The magic of this bead

Once, a merchant named Kikata loaded his donkey with a bag of Rudraksha beads while returning from Badhrachala. The poor beast died on the way home. Its spirit at once merged with Shiva, just because he was carrying this bead at his hour of death.

According to Devi Bhagavatam, Gunanidhi, though a son of a learned scholar, lived a debauched life and committed many unspeakable sins. Shunned by society, he lived on the fringes as an outcast. As fate would have it, one day he lay down under a rudraksha tree and passed away. The messengers of Yama, the yamadutas, were instantly there to carry him to the darkest realms of Naraka. There could be no doubt as to where this one was headed to work out his karma. But lo and behold, the warriors of Shiva, the Shivaganas were already escorting Gunanidhi to Shivaloka, the realm of wisdom and peace! It was the magic of the rudraksha.

Brahma, Saraswati, Kartikeya, Dattatreya, all the learned Rishis and Shiva adorn themselves with these mystical beads.

A bead for everyone

While each bead from the Rudraksha tree is held sacred, all beads are not equal. Structurally each seed may have one to twenty-one lines. Hence a rudraksha may be ekmukhi (with just one line), dwimukhi (with two lines) and so on, depending on the number of lines it possesses. It is said that in ancient times one could find seeds with up to a hundred and eight lines. These lines correspond to the number of compartments within the seed. There are other special types of beads like the Gauri Shankar which has two beads naturally fused together.

The Science

The scientific name of rudraksha is Elaeocarpus ganitrus (Roxb). The evergreen tree which likes to grow in narrow places starts to bear fruits from the age of 3 or 4 years. The fruits are covered with a blue outer husk when fully ripened. This colour is not from a pigment, but due to the structure. The seed or rudraksha vary in colour from white, blood red, black to yellow, and has a natural hole running through its length. It is a rich source of Vitamin C. Some scientific research shows that the bead has electromagnetic properties and a dynamic polarity, which is why it can exert subtle corrective influence on the blood flow in a living being.

Who knows what secrets these gnarled, wizened old beads have to still share with humanity?

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Angampora is a Sri Lankan martial art that is a mix of hand-to-hand fighting techniques and the use of indigenous weapons such as knives and swords. Did you know that Ravana is said to have been a master in all forms of this martial art and is the most feared Angam warrior of all time?

One of Angampora’s unique features is paralysing opponents by attacking certain pressure points on their bodies. There are several medical writings credited to Ravana the scholar, that make references to these points and healing through them. To this day, Angam gurus light a lamp in his honour before training commences.

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Sage Valmiki wrote the definitive version of the Ramayana we all know and love, but as many as three hundred different versions of the epic are known to exist. In fact, the mammoth text even has versions that originated outside India. These versions can be found in China, Japan, Iran, Indonesia, and Cambodia, among others. Here are some of the examples of these, both within India and from abroad:

Get the entire Valmiki’s Ramayana – 6 vol set here: link.

The Ramavataram: Written by the legendary Tamil poet Kambar under the patronage of the Pannai kula chieftain Thiruvennal Nallur Sadayappa Vallal, the epic work is based on Valmiki’s work, but differs in specific incidents in the storyline and spiritual aspects. This is mainly because when in Valmiki’s version, Rama is a mortal prince whereas, by the time Kambar writes his version, Rama has already been deified as an incarnation of Vishnu himself. So when Rama kills Vaali from his hiding spot, he doesn’t feel the need to explain himself, as he fulfilled his kshatriya duty. However, when the same incident is retold by Kambar, Rama explains his actions many times over in the form of song. Even little things like the manner in which Ravana abducts Sita is shown differently. In Valmiki’s version, Ravana grabs Sita by her hair and hoists her over his shoulders. However, in Kambar’s version, Ravana lifts her off the ground with the piece of the earth she is standing on, with not even a fingernail touching her.

Get the entire Valmiki’s Ramayana – 6 vol set here: link.

The Ranganatha Ramayana: It is the most famous Telugu adapatation of the epic penned by the famous poet Ranganatha between 1300 and 1310 AD; there are over 40 adaptations in Telugu, but only four cover the entirety of the story. Ranganatha Ramayana is famous for introducing the fabled squirrel incident; when the vanaras were helping Rama build a bridge to Lanka, a humble squirrel decided to do its bit and help out. As a gesture of his gratitude, Rama blesses the creature by drawing three lines on its back with his fingers.

The Reamker: A version of the Ramayana that originated in Cambodia, the epic builds on its Hindu roots and gives it shades of Buddhist philosophy. Literally translated to ‘Glory of Rama’, the story highlights the battle of good and evil, and plays on themes like justice and fidelity through Phreah Rama (Ram), Neang Seda (Sita) and Krong Reap (Ravana). In this version, there are new characters introduced like Sovanna Maccha, a mermaid who Hanuman encounters on his journeys. Like most South Asian texts, the Reamker is not limited to its literary form, but is retold through all art forms, from sculptures to dance-drama, music to paintings. Scenes from the epic appear as temple paintings and is said to have adorned the great temple of Angkor Vat.

Get the entire Valmiki’s Ramayana – 6 vol set here: link.

Kakawin Ramayana: The Jawanese rendition of the epic is considered to be the pinnacle of poetic expression in Indonesia and has a lot of differences from Valmiki’s original. While the first half still matches its Sanskrit predecessor for the most of it, the second half sees the introduction of the all-powerful Jawanese guardian spirit, Semar, and his monstrous sons, Gareng, Petruk and Bagong. These four characters are staples in Javanese shadow puppetry or ‘Wayang’, and show up as comical servants to the hero, in this case, Prince Rama. Interestingly, in this version, Hanuman is considered the king of the monkeys, not Vali or Sugriva like in the original. Scholars say that the first half is based more on the poet’s Bhatti’s Ravanavadha, written in the 6th or 7th century, rather than Valmiki’s Ramayana.

Other notable versions include:
– Ramakien in Thailand
– Phra Lak Phra Ram in Laos
– Yama Zatdaw in Burma
– Saptakanda Ramayana in Assam
– Ramacharitam in Kerala
– And of course, the poet Tulsidas’ famous Ramcharitmanas

Get the entire Valmiki’s Ramayana – 6 vol set here: link.

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