What If The RAMAYANA Was Told From SITA’s Perspective?

For centuries, The Ramayana has been narrated as a tale of duty, honor, and righteousness, with Lord Rama at its epicenter. But what if the story had been penned by Sita? Would the themes remain the same? Or would we see an entirely different emotional and philosophical narrative—one that focuses on endurance, sacrifice, and the unspoken struggles of a woman caught in the tides of fate?

What if, instead of celebrating the hero’s journey, we were made to feel the silent battles of a woman whose resilience shaped the very fabric of the epic? Would we still call it a tale of victory, or would it transform into a reflection on loss, strength, and self-discovery?

Traditionally, The Ramayana is perceived as the journey of Rama—his exile, his battles, his return as a victorious king. Sita, although revered, often exists within the margins of the grand narrative. A Ramayana from her perspective, however, would likely shift the focus from valor to endurance.

Her journey is one of patience and resilience, marked by trials that test the very essence of womanhood. From willingly accompanying her husband into exile to her prolonged captivity in Lanka, her pain and perseverance would take center stage. Rather than being a side character in her own story, she would become the narrative’s emotional and philosophical anchor.

If Sita were to recount the Ramayana, her voice might highlight the deeper emotional layers of the tale rather than just its physical conflicts. The kidnapping by Ravana, for instance, would not merely be about a demonic king’s obsession but also about Sita’s internal struggle—her isolation, her unwavering faith in Rama, and the emotional turmoil of being powerless yet hopeful.

Her interactions with nature in Ashoka Vatika would have been more pronounced. The trees, the animals, and even the breeze would become characters of solace in her story—her only companions in the darkest times. She might describe how she found comfort in the rustling leaves, whispering winds, and the blooming flowers that seemed to reassure her of hope. She would narrate how she spent her days praying, weaving garlands from fallen flowers, and sharing her grief with the gentle deer that roamed nearby. Her time in Ashoka Vatika would not be just about suffering but also about moments of quiet reflection, resilience, and an unbreakable bond with nature.

The sense of abandonment would be more deeply explored, questioning the very essence of duty and righteousness when it comes at the cost of personal suffering. The conversations she had with Hanuman upon his arrival would take on a more personal tone, expressing not just hope for rescue but also her doubts, fears, and the exhaustion of waiting.

While The Ramayana presents Rama as the ideal king and husband, a Sita-centric narrative would challenge this perception. Would she question Rama’s choices? Would she narrate the pain of undergoing an agnipariksha (trial by fire) to prove her purity? Would she accept her exile from Ayodhya in silence, or would she offer a piercing reflection on how society treats women?

A story told by Sita might depict Rama not just as a godly figure but as a man torn between love and duty. It would explore whether his adherence to dharma always justified the pain it inflicted upon his loved ones. Perhaps, in Sita’s version, there would be a raw and unfiltered portrayal of heartbreak—one that forces readers to ponder over the cost of unwavering righteousness.

A narrative from Sita’s viewpoint would also spotlight the often-overlooked female figures in The Ramayana. Kaikeyi, frequently vilified for sending Rama into exile, might be understood as a woman shaped by her own insecurities and past traumas. Mandodari, Ravana’s wife, would be more than just a silent sufferer—she would emerge as a woman caught between her love for her husband and her disdain for his actions.

Even the women of Lanka, the demonesses guarding Sita, could have been humanized in her narrative. What were their own struggles? Did they see themselves in Sita’s pain? Such nuances would add depth to a tale otherwise dominated by kings, warriors, and sages.

If Sita had written The Ramayana, the ending might not have been Rama’s grand return to Ayodhya. Instead, it could have ended with her walking away—choosing self-respect over societal acceptance. Her final departure into Mother Earth would not have been a tragic conclusion but an act of ultimate liberation.

In her words, this might not be seen as a sorrowful farewell but as a reclaiming of her identity, away from a world that constantly demanded proof of her purity and devotion. It would be a testament to self-worth, teaching generations that love should not demand suffering, and that a woman’s worth is not tied to her sacrifices alone.


A Sita-centric Ramayana would reshape the way we perceive her today. Rather than an epitome of submission, she would be seen as a figure of quiet rebellion—one who endured, but on her own terms. Her struggles would not just be a test of loyalty but a reflection of the countless women who have been asked to prove themselves throughout history.

Such a retelling would make Sita’s story not just one of devotion but also of self-realization, strength, and independence. It would inspire generations to see her not as a passive sufferer but as an active agent of her own destiny.
A version of The Ramayana narrated by Sita would be deeply introspective, focusing less on conquests and more on the cost of love, duty, and honor. It would challenge the conventional narratives of heroism and instead highlight the resilience of a woman who stood tall despite the odds.

Perhaps, if Sita had written The Ramayana, it would have been less about a prince’s return to his kingdom and more about a woman’s journey toward self-worth. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the version of the story we need today.