Growing up in India, I heard the story of Sita many times—at home, in schoolbooks, and through television serials. Every version showed her as the perfect woman. She followed her husband into exile, lived in the forest without complaint, and proved her purity by walking through fire. Even after that, she was sent away. People around me praised her. They said she was an example of patience, loyalty, and sacrifice. But I never really felt comfortable with that image. Something about it felt unfair. Why was her voice missing? Why did no one ask her what she wanted?

I didn’t find answers to these questions in school, but I started finding them later in books written by Indian women authors. In the last fifteen years or so, many writers have gone back to Sita’s story and told it differently—not by changing facts, but by focusing on her feelings, her silence, and her strength. These new versions don’t show Sita as weak. They show her as someone who endured a lot but quietly held on to her dignity and inner power. She still loved, still cared, but she stopped begging for anyone’s approval.

One of the books that stayed with me is The Forest of Enchantments by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. In this novel, the story of the Ramayana is told from Sita’s point of view. For the first time, I didn’t just read what happened to her—I understood how it felt. This Sita doesn’t blindly follow dharma or duty. She questions it. She wants to be seen as more than just Ram’s wife or King Janak’s daughter. She wants to be heard as a woman who has her pain, her own choices, and her truth.

Divakaruni’s writing is gentle but firm. She doesn’t make Sita shout or fight. But through quiet moments—like when Sita speaks to the forest or when she is left alone while pregnant—you feel her heartbreak. You also feel her strength. She doesn’t return to the palace in the end, even when she is given the chance. Instead, she chooses to leave the world that kept asking her to prove herself. That decision said more than any long speech ever could.

Another writer whose work opened my eyes was Kavita Kane. Her books often focus on women from mythology who were pushed to the side—characters like Urmila, Surpanakha, or Karna’s wife. While Sita may not be the central character in all of Kane’s books, her presence is always felt. In Lanka’s Princess, which tells the story of Surpanakha, you can see how both women—though from opposite sides—are punished for not fitting into the roles expected of them.

Kane shows that mythology is full of women who were denied their voices. They were either worshipped or blamed, but rarely understood. Her writing reminds us that women like Sita were not one-dimensional. They had feelings that were often ignored in the grand tales of war and dharma. And it makes you wonder—how many more stories like Sita’s were lost because nobody cared to ask how these women felt?

A different, yet powerful, version of Sita’s story is found in Sita’s Ramayana, a graphic novel by Samhita Arni with illustrations by Moyna Chitrakar. It’s told in a very visual and emotional way. This Sita is not impressed by war. She doesn’t celebrate the return of Ram after defeating Ravan. She watches everything that war destroyed—homes, lives, peace—and asks what was truly won. Her questions aren’t angry, but they are sharp. She doesn’t blame anyone, but she doesn’t hide her pain either.

What stood out for me in this book was how simply it was told, but how deeply it affected me. The drawings are in folk style, the words are few, but every page carries weight. This Sita doesn’t act like a goddess. She behaves like a woman who saw too much and lost too much, and finally chose peace over power.

Reading these books helped me look at Sita differently. She was never weak. She was quiet, yes. But that doesn’t mean she had no power. Her silence held more strength than people realised. In every retelling I read, Sita is someone who keeps giving, until she has nothing left. But even then, she doesn’t ask for pity. She chooses to walk away from a life that kept testing her again and again. And that, to me, is not a sign of weakness. It’s a kind of quiet rebellion.

These modern versions of her story also made me think about how Indian women today are still judged in similar ways. Even now, women are expected to be patient, to forgive easily, to adjust, and not to question too much. When they don’t behave the way people expect, they’re seen as difficult or disrespectful. But these books show us that Sita, too, was made to suffer for being “too perfect”—and still, she was never truly accepted. If even she was not enough, what hope do real women have?

I think that’s why so many readers, especially young women, connect to these new versions. Because we see our struggles in Sita’s pain. We see how often we are told to stay silent “for the sake of peace.” How often are we asked to prove ourselves, even when we’ve already done enough? And how rare it is to be truly heard.

But the best thing about these retellings is that they don’t show Sita as someone broken. They show her as someone who survived. Someone who didn’t beg, didn’t scream, but still chose for herself. When she asks Mother Earth to take her back, it’s not a sign of defeat. It’s her way of saying, “I’m done with your tests.” That quiet strength feels more powerful than any sword or battle.

In school, we were taught to respect mythology. And I still do. But I also believe that respect doesn’t mean we can’t ask questions. These writers have not disrespected the Ramayana. They’ve simply reminded us that there was more than one voice in the story. And maybe it’s time we started listening to the ones we ignored for too long.

Sita’s story will always be part of our culture. But how we choose to tell it now says a lot about the kind of society we want to become. If we can finally see her as a woman with her thoughts, her grief, and her power—then maybe we are ready to stop seeing women only through the lens of sacrifice. Maybe we are finally ready to listen.

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