Just Like That | Ravana: Villain, tragic hero, or a mirror of human pride?
If Ravana was born to die at Rama’s hands, is he not a willing participant in the grand Leela? If so, can he be called a villain in the conventional sense.
On Dussehra, a few days from now, effigies of Ravana will be burnt, but it is important to remember that, in the vast repository of India’s mythological and epical consciousness, few figures loom as enigmatically as him. For the casual devotee, he is the ten-headed villain, the very embodiment of evil, whose abduction of Sita leads to his ultimate destruction at the hands of Lord Rama. Yet, as with many characters in our epics, Ravana resists simple classification. He is not merely a foil to Rama’s divinity, but a figure whose life, motives, and personality are riven with moral and philosophical complexity. The question that then arises is a provocative one: was Ravana truly the villain he is so often made out to be?
Let us begin by acknowledging that Ravana is no minor antagonist. In Valmiki’s Ramayana, he is granted the stature of a formidable king, a scholar, a devotee, and an artist. He rules over Lanka, described in glowing terms as a city of gold. His intellect is formidable — he is said to have mastered the Vedas and various shastras. He was an accomplished veena player and an erudite Brahmin of the Rakshasa lineage. In a land that reveres knowledge, Ravana is often called a ‘Maha Pandit’, and not without reason.
Yet, for all his learning, Ravana is undone by his ego and desire. His abduction of Sita is not merely an act of lust — it is a challenge to Rama, to dharma itself. But unlike the cardboard villains of modern storytelling, Ravana is not evil for the sake of evil. He is a tragic figure, whose virtues are eclipsed by a fatal flaw — his ‘ahamkara’, his overwhelming pride. But does this moral lapse make him entirely condemnable?
One must understand that Indian epics do not present morality in binaries. They thrive in the grey, embracing contradictions that reveal deeper truths about the human condition. The Mahabharata, for instance, is replete with dharma-yuddhas, where the righteous do wrong and the wronged act righteously. Ravana too fits into this paradigm. His character is a study in what happens when brilliance is divorced from humility and devotion is clouded by ego.
Importantly, Ravana is not universally reviled across India. In parts of the country, particularly in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, and Karnataka, there are sects and communities that regard him with a degree of reverence. In Mandsaur, Madhya Pradesh, Ravana is worshipped as a son-in-law because of his marriage to Mandodari, who is believed to have hailed from the region. Temples dedicated to Ravana exist, albeit rare, and rituals in his memory are still performed during Dussehra — not to glorify his defeat, but to honour his intellect and devotion.
This contrarian veneration is not just regional sentiment. It points to a broader Indian instinct to interrogate, rather than merely accept narrative orthodoxy. The same culture that reveres Rama also finds in Ravana a cautionary tale, not of unmitigated evil, but of what happens when great power is misused. Even Rama, in the final moments of Ravana’s life, sends Lakshmana to sit at the dying king’s feet, instructing him to learn from Ravana’s wisdom.
There is also the philosophical question that has lingered through centuries of interpretation: Did Ravana desire death at the hands of Rama to attain moksha? This line of thought, found in various Puranic and devotional retellings, posits that Ravana was not a mere ‘rakshasa’, but a celestial being cursed to live a mortal life, ultimately liberated by Rama. Some versions see him as a gatekeeper of Vishnu, cursed to take demonic birth. These interpretations lend an entirely different moral hue to the epic — Ravana’s actions, while condemnable, become the instruments of a divine plan, his death a cosmic necessity.
Such narratives raise profound questions about free will and fate. If Ravana was born to die at Rama’s hands, is he not a willing participant in the grand Leela? If so, can he be called a villain in the conventional sense, or is he a tragic actor in a divine play, consigned to be the antagonist so that dharma may triumph?
It is worth noting that Indian storytelling has always allowed room for reinterpretation. In the Kamban Ramayana of Tamil Nadu, the poetic treatment of Ravana is far more nuanced than in the Valmiki text. In the Ramayana of Ezhuthachan, Kerala’s version, one finds shades of sympathy for Ravana’s predicament. And in Jain and Buddhist retellings, Ravana is sometimes portrayed with restraint, even compassion. In Sri Lanka, unsurprisingly, he is remembered not as a villain but as a great king, and alternative narratives abound that seek to reclaim his legacy.
The lesson, then, is not simply about good versus evil, but about the dangers of pride, the misuse of power, and the capacity for even the wisest among us to err. In this, Ravana becomes less a villain and more a mirror — reflecting both the heights of human potential and the depths of human failing.
As we watch Ravana’s effigy go up in flames, let us not do so in mindless celebration, but in thoughtful remembrance. For the real enemy is not Ravana out there, but the Ravana within.
(Pavan K Varma is an author, diplomat, and former member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha). The views expressed are personal.)
On Dussehra, a few days from now, effigies of Ravana will be burnt, but it is important to remember that, in the vast repository of India’s mythological and epical consciousness, few figures loom as enigmatically as him. For the casual devotee, he is the ten-headed villain, the very embodiment of evil, whose abduction of Sita leads to his ultimate destruction at the hands of Lord Rama. Yet, as with many characters in our epics, Ravana resists simple classification. He is not merely a foil to Rama’s divinity, but a figure whose life, motives, and personality are riven with moral and philosophical complexity. The question that then arises is a provocative one: was Ravana truly the villain he is so often made out to be?
Let us begin by acknowledging that Ravana is no minor antagonist. In Valmiki’s Ramayana, he is granted the stature of a formidable king, a scholar, a devotee, and an artist. He rules over Lanka, described in glowing terms as a city of gold. His intellect is formidable — he is said to have mastered the Vedas and various shastras. He was an accomplished veena player and an erudite Brahmin of the Rakshasa lineage. In a land that reveres knowledge, Ravana is often called a ‘Maha Pandit’, and not without reason.
Yet, for all his learning, Ravana is undone by his ego and desire. His abduction of Sita is not merely an act of lust — it is a challenge to Rama, to dharma itself. But unlike the cardboard villains of modern storytelling, Ravana is not evil for the sake of evil. He is a tragic figure, whose virtues are eclipsed by a fatal flaw — his ‘ahamkara’, his overwhelming pride. But does this moral lapse make him entirely condemnable?
One must understand that Indian epics do not present morality in binaries. They thrive in the grey, embracing contradictions that reveal deeper truths about the human condition. The Mahabharata, for instance, is replete with dharma-yuddhas, where the righteous do wrong and the wronged act righteously. Ravana too fits into this paradigm. His character is a study in what happens when brilliance is divorced from humility and devotion is clouded by ego.
{{/usCountry}}One must understand that Indian epics do not present morality in binaries. They thrive in the grey, embracing contradictions that reveal deeper truths about the human condition. The Mahabharata, for instance, is replete with dharma-yuddhas, where the righteous do wrong and the wronged act righteously. Ravana too fits into this paradigm. His character is a study in what happens when brilliance is divorced from humility and devotion is clouded by ego.
{{/usCountry}}Importantly, Ravana is not universally reviled across India. In parts of the country, particularly in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, and Karnataka, there are sects and communities that regard him with a degree of reverence. In Mandsaur, Madhya Pradesh, Ravana is worshipped as a son-in-law because of his marriage to Mandodari, who is believed to have hailed from the region. Temples dedicated to Ravana exist, albeit rare, and rituals in his memory are still performed during Dussehra — not to glorify his defeat, but to honour his intellect and devotion.
{{/usCountry}}Importantly, Ravana is not universally reviled across India. In parts of the country, particularly in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, and Karnataka, there are sects and communities that regard him with a degree of reverence. In Mandsaur, Madhya Pradesh, Ravana is worshipped as a son-in-law because of his marriage to Mandodari, who is believed to have hailed from the region. Temples dedicated to Ravana exist, albeit rare, and rituals in his memory are still performed during Dussehra — not to glorify his defeat, but to honour his intellect and devotion.
{{/usCountry}}This contrarian veneration is not just regional sentiment. It points to a broader Indian instinct to interrogate, rather than merely accept narrative orthodoxy. The same culture that reveres Rama also finds in Ravana a cautionary tale, not of unmitigated evil, but of what happens when great power is misused. Even Rama, in the final moments of Ravana’s life, sends Lakshmana to sit at the dying king’s feet, instructing him to learn from Ravana’s wisdom.
There is also the philosophical question that has lingered through centuries of interpretation: Did Ravana desire death at the hands of Rama to attain moksha? This line of thought, found in various Puranic and devotional retellings, posits that Ravana was not a mere ‘rakshasa’, but a celestial being cursed to live a mortal life, ultimately liberated by Rama. Some versions see him as a gatekeeper of Vishnu, cursed to take demonic birth. These interpretations lend an entirely different moral hue to the epic — Ravana’s actions, while condemnable, become the instruments of a divine plan, his death a cosmic necessity.
Such narratives raise profound questions about free will and fate. If Ravana was born to die at Rama’s hands, is he not a willing participant in the grand Leela? If so, can he be called a villain in the conventional sense, or is he a tragic actor in a divine play, consigned to be the antagonist so that dharma may triumph?
It is worth noting that Indian storytelling has always allowed room for reinterpretation. In the Kamban Ramayana of Tamil Nadu, the poetic treatment of Ravana is far more nuanced than in the Valmiki text. In the Ramayana of Ezhuthachan, Kerala’s version, one finds shades of sympathy for Ravana’s predicament. And in Jain and Buddhist retellings, Ravana is sometimes portrayed with restraint, even compassion. In Sri Lanka, unsurprisingly, he is remembered not as a villain but as a great king, and alternative narratives abound that seek to reclaim his legacy.
The lesson, then, is not simply about good versus evil, but about the dangers of pride, the misuse of power, and the capacity for even the wisest among us to err. In this, Ravana becomes less a villain and more a mirror — reflecting both the heights of human potential and the depths of human failing.
As we watch Ravana’s effigy go up in flames, let us not do so in mindless celebration, but in thoughtful remembrance. For the real enemy is not Ravana out there, but the Ravana within.
(Pavan K Varma is an author, diplomat, and former member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha). The views expressed are personal.)
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