Surpanakha

The story of Surpanakha has always fascinated me.I know many people may not like what I’m about to say.I know there will be justifications, why it was right, how it was necessary, how it had to happen. But for once, let’s keep all that aside. Let’s look at her story differently. Not as a turning point in the Ramayana. Not as the demon who sparked a war. Just as a woman.

She saw a man. He was kind, calm, and handsome. She walked up to him, not secretly, not shyly, but openly. She said something simple and clear: “I like you. Will you marry me?”

That’s it.

No tricks. No schemes. No games. Just a woman expressing desire. And what did she receive in return?

Laughter. They laughed at her. Rama. Lakshmana.They mocked her voice, her face, her boldness. They told her she was too dark, too old, too wild. That she should marry someone like herself, a demon.

Not because she hurt anyone. Not because she attacked.

Just because she chose. And when she didn’t apologise for wanting, When she didn’t quietly walk away. They punished her. They cut off her nose.A woman asked for love. They turned her into a joke. And then into a lesson.

A lesson that echoes even today.

"Don’t want too much." "Don’t speak first." "Don’t express desire." "Just wait. Be chosen. Don’t choose."

Surpanakha was not violent. She wasn’t wrong to feel.

Maybe she pushed too much. Maybe she didn’t understand boundaries. But did that mean she deserved to be disfigured?

Let’s be honest, Even today, when a woman says “I want,”

Society replies, “How dare you?” If she proposes, she’s desperate. If she follows up, she’s a stalker. If she falls for the wrong man, she’s a homewrecker.

But when a man does the same? He’s called passionate. Determined. Romantic.

That’s the deeper tragedy of Surpanakha’s story. Not just what happened to her, But how we remembered it. Or rather, how we chose to forget her.

We erased her pain. We blamed her for what followed. We turned her desire into a disaster, and moved on. Ramayana continued. She disappeared. And there’s another silence in the story, Sita’s.

Sita was there. She saw another woman being humiliated. She saw her face being cut for wanting love. Why didn’t she speak? Maybe Sita thought Surpanakha was too bold. Maybe she believed, like many women are taught even today, "That kind of woman deserves what she gets.”

But what’s missing is any sign of empathy. No moment of connection between two women. No voice saying, “She’s still one of us.” Even in our greatest epics, women were not taught to stand together. They were taught to stay in line. To be silent. To not question. And that silence hurt more than the sword.

Surpanakha was failed by men. She was failed by a woman. She was failed by a society that couldn’t handle a woman who spoke her heart.

Yes, she insisted. Yes, she crossed lines. But so do men. All the time. Only women are punished for it, harshly, permanently. Even today, we still don’t know what happened to her in the end. Did she fight in the war? Did she grieve? Did she survive?

No one asked.

Because once she became inconvenient, we erased her. That’s what we still do. We silence women who speak. We punish those who express. And when they don’t fit our clean little version of the story, We forget them.

But Surpanakha’s story refuses to disappear. Because it’s not just a story from the past. It’s a mirror. And what we see in it, is still very real.