Valmiki’s Women: Why Anand Neelakantan’s Retelling Matters

We all know the Ramayana. It’s one of those stories that’s been told so many times, in so many ways, that it feels like it’s always been there. The story of Rama, the perfect prince who gave up his throne. Sita, his faithful wife who followed him into exile. Hanuman, the devoted monkey god who’d do anything for Rama. Ravana, the demon king who stole Sita and paid for it with his life.

It’s a good story. A grand story. The kind that gets passed down through generations, acted out in plays, turned into TV shows that entire families watch together.

But here’s the thing—it’s always been told from the same angle. The winners’ angle. The kings, the gods, the heroes. And when you only hear from the winners, you miss out on a lot of other voices. Voices that might tell you the story wasn’t quite as simple as you thought.

That’s what Anand Neelakantan’s Valmiki’s Women tries to change.

The Problem With How We’ve Always Told These Stories

Think about how most ancient stories work. The king is brave and wise. The hero is strong and righteous. The gods are just and fair. And if you’re a woman in one of these stories, you’re basically going to fall into one of two categories.

You’re either put on a pedestal—worshipped as a goddess, seen as the perfect wife or mother, someone who never complains and always does the right thing. Or you’re thrown in the dirt—called a witch, a demon, a home-wrecker, someone whose very existence causes problems for the men around her.

There’s not much room in between. There’s not much space for women to just be… people. Complicated people with their own wants and fears and anger and pain.

And that’s exactly where Valmiki’s Women comes in. It asks a question that should have been asked a long time ago: What if we actually stopped and listened to the women who’ve been pushed to the side of this story? The ones who’ve been blamed for everything that went wrong? The ones whose names we barely remember?

Not Another Story About Sita Being Perfect

Now, before we go further—this isn’t another book about Sita. We’ve all heard Sita’s story more times than we can count. The devoted wife who gave up everything to follow her husband into the forest. The pure woman who had to prove her innocence by walking through fire because people couldn’t stop gossiping about her. The patient, suffering figure who never once raised her voice in anger.

Sita’s important, obviously. But she’s also become this symbol that’s used to tell women how they should behave. Be like Sita. Don’t complain. Don’t question. Suffer quietly. Prove yourself over and over again.

Valmiki’s Women isn’t interested in repeating that same old lecture. Instead, it turns to the women who don’t usually get to speak at all.

Mantara – the hunchbacked maid who everyone says ruined everything. The woman who supposedly whispered poison into Queen Kaikeyi’s ear and convinced her to send Rama into exile. For thousands of years, she’s been the villain everyone loves to hate.

Shanta – Rama’s older sister. Wait, you didn’t know Rama had an older sister? That’s because most versions of the story barely mention her, if they mention her at all. She was given away, handed over to another king for adoption like a gift, and then just… forgotten.

Tadaka – the so-called demoness. In most tellings, she’s just a monster that Rama kills early on to prove he’s brave and worthy. A few paragraphs about her, maybe a scary description, and then she’s gone. But what was her life like before she became the villain in someone else’s story?

These women have been sitting in the shadows of the Ramayana for centuries. Neelakantan finally gives them a chance to step into the light and tell us what actually happened.

Why Mantara’s Story Hits So Hard

Let’s talk about Mantara for a minute, because her story is probably the most powerful one in the book.

We’ve always been told she’s the villain. The troublemaker. The scheming servant who couldn’t stand to see Rama happy, so she poisoned his stepmother’s mind and got him exiled. Case closed, right? Bad person doing bad things.

But in Valmiki’s Women, we actually get to hear Mantara’s side. And suddenly, things don’t look so simple anymore.

Mantara wasn’t just some random maid who decided to cause chaos for fun. She was a woman who’d spent her entire life serving Queen Kaikeyi. She watched the way people looked at her because of her hunched back. She saw how they whispered behind her back, how they treated her like she was less than human. She gave everything to her queen—her loyalty, her time, her whole life—and what did she get in return? Scorn. Mockery. A lifetime of being invisible except when someone needed someone to blame.

And here’s the thing—she wasn’t wrong about what she saw happening in the palace. She saw King Dasharatha making promises to Kaikeyi and then forgetting about them the moment it became inconvenient. She saw how easily queens could be pushed aside when they weren’t useful anymore. She saw that the only way to survive in that world was to fight for whatever little power you could get.

Was she bitter? Yes. Was she angry? Absolutely. Did she make choices that hurt people? Sure. But when you’ve spent your whole life being treated like you don’t matter, can anyone really be surprised when you stop caring about the people who never cared about you?

That’s what makes this story powerful. Neelakantan doesn’t try to make Mantara into a saint. He doesn’t pretend she was secretly good all along. He just lets her be human—messy, complicated, angry, and yes, sometimes cruel. Because real people are like that.

The Daughter Who Got Erased

Now let’s talk about Shanta, because her story is the kind that makes you realize how many women have just been written out of history entirely.

Most people who know the Ramayana don’t even know Shanta exists. And if they do know about her, it’s usually just a footnote: “Oh yeah, Rama had an older sister, but she was given away in adoption, anyway, moving on…”

But think about what that means for a second. Shanta was King Dasharatha’s firstborn child. His oldest. But she was a daughter, and in that world, daughters were currency. They were things you could give away to make political alliances, to repay favors, to keep important people happy.

So Shanta was handed over to another king. Not because she’d done anything wrong. Not because her parents didn’t love her. But because keeping a promise to a powerful friend was more important than keeping your own daughter.

And then she just… disappears from the story. The Ramayana moves on to talk about the sons—Rama, Bharata, Lakshmana, Shatrughna. The boys who mattered. The ones whose lives and choices would shape kingdoms.

But what about Shanta? What was it like for her, growing up knowing she’d been given away? What was it like watching from a distance as her brothers got all the attention, all the glory, all the chances to be heroes? What was it like being the forgotten one?

Her story in Valmiki’s Women is a reminder that history is full of women like this. Women who were pushed to the side. Women whose sacrifices kept families together but who never got credit for it. Women whose names were lost because nobody thought they were important enough to remember.

And here’s what makes it even more painful—this still happens. Not the literal adoption part, maybe, but the forgetting part. The part where daughters are expected to be selfless and quiet. The part where their achievements get overlooked while their brothers get celebrated. The part where they’re supposed to smile and be grateful even when they’re being treated unfairly.

Shanta’s story isn’t just about ancient history. It’s about every woman who’s ever been told her feelings don’t matter as much as keeping the peace. Every woman who’s been erased from the family story because she wasn’t the favorite. Every woman who’s had to watch someone else get the credit for her work.

The Monster Who Might Have Had a Point

Then there’s Tadaka. And boy, does her story make you think.

In almost every version of the Ramayana, Tadaka is simple. She’s a demon. A monster. An obstacle that young Rama has to overcome to prove he’s worthy of being a hero. She’s scary, she’s dangerous, and she needs to be eliminated. End of story.

But Valmiki’s Women asks: What if it’s not that simple? What if Tadaka had a life before she became the thing everyone was afraid of?

The book tells us she was once a woman. A mother. Someone who’d lost everything and everyone she loved. Someone who’d been pushed so far, hurt so badly, that she’d changed into something else entirely. Her rage wasn’t random. It was earned.

Now, I’ll be honest—Tadaka’s chapter is one of the weaker ones in the book. It feels rushed, like Neelakantan wasn’t quite sure how much time to spend on a character who’s been painted as purely evil for thousands of years. It’s hard to make people care about someone they’ve been taught to fear and hate since childhood. And maybe the author struggled with that.

But even if the execution isn’t perfect, the question is still worth asking: How many “monsters” in our stories are just people who were pushed too far? How many villains are actually victims who didn’t have any other way to survive?

And here’s the uncomfortable truth—we do this all the time in real life. We turn women into monsters when they don’t behave the way we think they should. When they’re too angry, too loud, too sexual, too ambitious, too anything. We paint them as demons so we don’t have to think about why they’re angry in the first place.

Tadaka’s story is rushed and imperfect, yes. But it still matters because it reminds us that every villain was a person first.

The Stories That Feel Too Much

Not every chapter in Valmiki’s Women works equally well. Some of them land with real emotional power. Others feel a bit off.

Take Meenakshi’s story, for example. It’s full of drama—maybe too much drama. There are moments where it tips over into melodrama, where the emotions feel cranked up to eleven, where you can almost hear the dramatic music swelling in the background. It can feel over the top, like a soap opera that’s trying too hard to make you cry.

And look, I get it. When you’re trying to make people care about women who’ve been ignored for centuries, there’s a temptation to really pour on the emotion. To make sure nobody can miss the point. To hit people over the head with how sad and unfair it all is.

But sometimes, the quieter moments are more powerful. Sometimes, you don’t need the big dramatic speeches. Sometimes, just showing us these women as they are—flawed, struggling, trying their best in impossible situations—is enough.

Still, even the chapters that don’t quite land are trying to do something important. They’re trying to make up for thousands of years of silence. And if they occasionally go too far in the other direction, well, maybe that’s understandable.

What This Book Gets Right, Despite Everything

So yeah, Valmiki’s Women isn’t perfect. Some stories are stronger than others. Some chapters feel rushed. Some moments feel melodramatic. There are parts that could have been written better, developed more fully, given more breathing room.

But here’s why it still matters. Here’s why you should read it anyway.

For thousands of years, mythology has been used as a weapon against women. It’s been used to tell them how to behave. Be like Sita—quiet, obedient, never complaining even when you’re being treated terribly. Don’t be like Surpanakha—don’t be sexual, don’t be demanding, don’t pursue what you want. Don’t be like Mantara—don’t be angry, don’t question authority, don’t fight back.

These stories have been told and retold to teach women their place. To show them what happens when they step out of line. To make sure they understand that good women suffer in silence and bad women get punished.

Valmiki’s Women does the exact opposite. It says: What if we stopped using these stories as lessons in obedience? What if we actually listened to what the “bad” women have to say? What if the women everyone blamed and hated and forgot actually had legitimate reasons for their anger?

And here’s what I love most about this book—Neelakantan doesn’t try to make these women into perfect victims. He doesn’t turn them into saints just because they’ve been treated unfairly. He doesn’t pretend that being oppressed automatically makes you noble and good.

These women are complicated. They’re angry. They’re bitter. They make mistakes. They hurt people sometimes. They’re selfish. They’re contradictory. They’re human.

Mantara isn’t secretly good—she’s genuinely angry and vengeful. But she has reasons for being that way. Shanta isn’t some perfect martyr—she struggles with resentment and sadness. But who wouldn’t, in her situation? Tadaka isn’t redeemed at the end—she’s still dangerous and frightening. But maybe she had a right to be.

That’s what makes these stories real. Real people aren’t perfect. Real women aren’t saints or demons. They’re somewhere in the messy middle, trying to survive in worlds that weren’t built for them.

Why We Need More Stories Like This

Here’s the thing about the old stories—they’re powerful. They shape how we think. They influence what we believe about right and wrong, about men and women, about who deserves to be heard and who deserves to be forgotten.

And when those stories only ever come from one perspective—when they’re always told by the winners, by the kings, by the heroes—we miss out on so much truth.

We miss out on the maid who spent her life being invisible. We miss out on the daughter who was given away like property. We miss out on the woman whose grief turned her into something unrecognizable. We miss out on all the complicated, messy, uncomfortable truths that don’t fit neatly into tales of good versus evil.

Valmiki’s Women is trying to fill in those gaps. It’s trying to give voice to the voiceless. It’s trying to show us that history is more complicated than we thought. That maybe the people we’ve been taught to hate or ignore or forget actually have something important to tell us.

Is it a perfect book? No. Does every story work? Not quite. Could some parts be better developed? Absolutely.

But it’s still important. It’s still necessary. It’s still worth reading.

Because every time we let Mantara tell her side of the story, we’re admitting that maybe things weren’t as simple as we thought. Every time we remember Shanta existed, we’re pushing back against the erasure of women from history. Every time we ask what made Tadaka into a monster, we’re questioning who gets to decide who’s a villain and who’s a hero.

And that matters. It matters more than perfect prose or flawless structure. It matters because these conversations need to happen.

The Final Word