The Ramayana, like most epics, is usually told from the winners’ point of view—kings, gods, and men. Women show up too, but their roles are limited. They’re either worshipped as goddesses or condemned as witches.
In Valmiki’s Women, Anand Neelakantan does something different. He asks: What if we finally listened to the women who were silenced, sidelined, or demonized?
Beyond Sita: Giving Voice to the Forgotten
This isn’t another retelling of Sita—the patient, saintly version we all know. Instead, we hear from women like:
- Mantara – the maid often blamed for “ruining everything.”
- Shanta – the daughter forgotten in her father’s ambition.
- Tadaka – reduced for centuries to a demoness.
Their stories show us that mythology isn’t one simple truth. It’s a battleground of gender, class, and power.
The Power of These Stories
Take Mantara. She isn’t just the hunchback maid. She’s a survivor in a palace where loyalty brings more scorn than respect.Or Shanta. Her story reminds us of the countless women erased from family histories, even though their sacrifices kept those families alive.
Or Shanta. Her story reminds us of the countless women erased from family histories, even though their sacrifices kept those families alive.
These tales work because they don’t feel distant. They echo the real struggles women face even today—being unheard, unseen, or forgotten.
Where the Book Stumbles
Not every chapter lands with the same force.
- Tadaka’s story feels rushed, as if the author was reluctant to spend time on a woman who’s long been painted as monstrous.
- Meenakshi’s story also feels rushed and leans heavily into melodrama, which can feel over the top.
But maybe that’s the cost of trying to break open a story told by men for thousands of years.
Why the Book Still Matters
What saves this book is its intent. In a world where mythology is often used to push patriarchal obedience, Valmiki’s Women does the opposite. It reminds us that beneath the grand tales of gods and kings, there are hidden voices of longing, pain, and resistance.
And here’s the most important part: Neelakantan doesn’t make these women flawless or saintly. He lets them be real—angry, bitter, contradictory, human.
This isn’t a perfect book. But it’s an important one. Because every time we let Mantara or Tadaka speak, we chip away at the old belief that only the victors deserve to be remembered.
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