Dashagriva: Tale of an Unconquered Ego

In the realm of tales spun from ancient echoes, where mythology meets reality, stories and interpretations emerge. Jyotish, interlaces mythical fables with the complexities of human existence, invites us to delve into the enigmatic origins of the legendary antagonist of the epic Ramayana – Ravan.

From his beginnings as Poulastya, a descendant of the revered Maharishi Pulastya, Ravan embarked on a journey of unparalleled brilliance. Through arduous penance, he mastered the ten sacred texts and earned the title of Dashashan (Ten -Headed.

However, his insatiable ego soon consumed him. In a moment of reckless pride, Dashashan audaciously attempted to lift the towering Kailas Parvat along with the meditating Lord Shiva. The enraged Shiva, with a mere flick of his colossal thumb, brought the mountain crashing down, crushing Dashashan under its immense weight. A deafening roar of agony, a symphony of shattered bones and, reverberated throughout the cosmos. This loud roaring scream defined his as “Ravan” (The name is derived from the Sanskrit verb “ru” or “rav,” which means “to roar” or “to scream.”

Yet, beneath the crushing stone, Ravan’s spirit did not break. Trapped and humbled, he turned his mind to a new challenge: to win the mercy of the great Shiva. And so, with the mountain pressing upon his shoulders, he wove a song—a fable in verse, a hymn to rival the stars. This was no ordinary tune, but the Shiv-Tandav Stotra, a masterpiece of sixteen syllables in every line, each one dancing like the winds of creation. Short beats skipped like playful deer, long notes stretched like the endless sky, and with clever twists of alliteration and the rumble of onomatopoeia, Ravan crafted a sound that echoed the very birth of the cosmos—the wild, whirling Tandav dance of Shiva himself.

Imagine, if you will, the scene: a ten-headed king, his body pinned beneath a peak of snow and stone, yet his voice rising like thunder, his words tumbling forth like a river breaking free. The poetry roared and raged, a mirror to the universe’s first dawn, a plea wrapped in praise. And Shiva, high atop his frozen throne, listened. The mountain’s weight was a burden no mortal could bear, yet Ravan’s mastery turned pain into power, despair into devotion.

In time, the great Lord’s heart softened, for who could resist such a marvel born of grit and genius?

Ravan and Jyotish

The Vedas bowed to his understanding, the Vedangas whispered secrets in his ears, and every Shastra and Kala bent to his will. How, then, could the starry art of Jyotish, the science of the skies, escape his grasp?

From his hands flowed the Ravan Samhita, a tome so potent that even the winds paused to listen. This was no simple scribbling of a sage—it was the mightiest text of Jyotish ever known, a map of the heavens drawn by a king who dared to command the cosmos itself. And oh, what a tale spins from this mastery, a fable of stars and defiance that echoes through the ages!

It came to pass that Ravan’s enemies, the shimmering Devas of the high realms, grew jealous of his power. When the time neared for Ravan’s son to draw his first breath, they hatched a cunning plan. They urged the navagrahas—the nine celestial lords of fate—to twist their paths, to cast shadows of misfortune over the newborn’s stars.

But Ravan, saw their trickery as clearly as the sun sees the day. He, the master of Jyotish Vidya, would not let the heavens betray his blood. With a roar that rivaled his mountain-crushing cry, he seized the navagrahas—Surya the Sun, Chandra the Moon, and all their kin—and bound them to his will. He dragged them from their lofty perches and set them in a line, a perfect constellation of power, to shine upon his son’s birth. Under Ravan’s iron hand, the stars aligned, weaving a fate so grand that his child was destined to rise as a ruler of all realms.

Yet Ravan’s wrath did not end with triumph. To remind the navagrahas of their place, he crafted a throne of splendor, its steps ascending to his seat of power. And upon each step, he bound a Graha, face-down, their celestial pride humbled beneath his feet. Surya burned in silence, Chandra waned in shame, and Shani, the stern lord of karma, found his head pressed low, a footrest for the seated king. Each tread upon those steps was a lesson: even the heavens must bow to one who masters their dance.

In their desperation, the Devas turned their pleading eyes to one who danced between worlds—Narad Muni, the wandering sage whose tongue was as sharp as his wit. With a heart full of mischief and a mind brimming with guile, Narad agreed to weave a thread of relief for the trembling gods. He set forth to Ravan’s court, his steps light as a breeze, yet his purpose as firm as the roots of an ancient tree.

There, amid the shadowed splendor of Ravan’s throne—where the navagrahas lay bound face-down upon the steps, their celestial might humbled—Narad Muni began his crafty play. First, he poured honeyed words upon the king, stroking Ravan’s towering ego as one might gentle a proud stallion. “O great Ravan,” he sang, his voice a melody of flattery, “master of realms and tamer of stars, your glory knows no bounds!” Ravan’s ten heads tilted, pleased, drinking deep from the cup of praise.

But Narad, ever the trickster, let a spark of provocation flicker in his eyes. “Yet,” he mused aloud, as if lost in thought, “is it not far more glorious to stride over your foes while gazing into their defeated eyes? To see their spirits break as your shadow falls upon them?” The words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in a dare, and Ravan, whose pride was a flame ever eager to blaze higher, seized it at once.

With a voice that rumbled like thunder across Lanka, Ravan barked his command. “Turn them!” he roared. “Let the navagrahas lie face-up beneath my feet!” The court stirred, and the bound Grahas—Surya, Chandra, and their kin—were flipped like coins in a gambler’s hand. Still tethered, still powerless to rise or rebel, they remained trampled under Ravan’s iron will. Their bodies pressed into the cold stone steps, yet now their faces lifted, their eyes forced to meet the king who had caged their fates.

And then, a shift—a ripple in the tale no one foresaw, least of all Ravan. For among the navagrahas, Shani, the dark lord of karma, lay at the lowest step, his head once a footrest for the seated king. Now, turned face-up, his gaze was freed—a slow, piercing stare that cut through the air like a blade forged in the fires of time. Shani’s eyes, heavy with the weight of justice, locked upon Ravan, unblinking and unrelenting. The Grahas could not move, could not strike, but Shani’s look was a promise, a whisper of reckonings yet to come.

Narad Muni stepped back, a faint smile curling beneath his sage’s calm, for he knew the seed was sown. Ravan, enthroned in his triumph, saw only the glory of his enemies’ upturned faces, blind to the shadow that Shani’s gaze began to cast.

Shani Drishti : The Gaze of Silent Destruction of Maya

Shani’s gaze works in silence, yet its weight is undeniable. It does not strike like the thunderbolt of Indra, nor does it burn with the immediate fury of Agni. Instead, it seeps in, like a slow-moving shadow, stretching over the proud and the mighty, dimming their world until only the truth remains.

The learned king, who knew the Vedas and the hidden secrets of the cosmos, failed in the simplest lesson of all—humility. Ravan, the master of Jyotish, who once bent the Grahas to his will, could not bend his own nature. He knew the sanctity of respect, the reverence due to women woven into the ancient texts. Yet, In a moment of reckless pride, Ravan stole Sita, the radiant wife of Rama, plucking her from the forest like a jewel torn from its setting.

When Ravan abducted Sita, he set forth a chain of events that even his vast intellect could not undo. He could have heeded wise counsel. He could have returned her. But arrogance, that old and faithful companion, wrapped him in its blinding embrace, and he spurned every outstretched hand of wisdom.

All that Ravan held dear—his golden Lanka, his vast armies, his dreams of eternal dominion—began to wither, crumbling like dry leaves before a flame. Yet, his eyes, clouded by the haze of self, saw nothing of the ruin creeping closer.

Ravan saw his empire burn. His kin fell, one by one, their blood soaking the soil of Lanka. His own son, Indrajit, a warrior who could have rivaled the gods, a son whose destiny he tried to design by capturing the Nav-grahas, lay lifeless before him. Yet, Ravan’s pride, like a mighty but hollow tree, stood tall even as its roots rotted away.

This is the essence of Shani’s work—not punishment, but revelation through loss. The weight of karma is neither cruel nor kind. It is merely just. When Shani stirs, he does not rush or rage; he moves with the slow certainty of a river carving stone. He takes it upon himself to shatter the false, to peel away the unreal, to strip bare the illusions of Maya that cloak the soul in fleeting comforts. All that glitters, all that boasts, all that one clings to in pride—Shani empties it out, leaving naught but the raw, trembling truth of ‘You.’?

The fall of Ravan is more than a tale of war, more than a lesson of dharma and adharma. It is a question that lingers through time. What is ego? What is arrogance? And at what cost does one hold onto them?

Myths, Itihaas, Vedas, Upanishads, Jyotish—are they mere stories, poetic fables of bygone eras? Are they guidelines, strict and rigid, dictating life’s path? Or are they vast oceans of meaning, each layer deeper than the last, beckoning the seeker to dive beyond the surface? Perhaps, like Shani’s lessons, they are meant to be experienced, endured, and understood not through passive reading but through the churning of one’s own existence.