Vanara by Anand Neelakantan — Book Review: The Vanaras’ Side of the Ramayana

You know the Ramayana. Everyone knows the Ramayana. Rama is the perfect hero. Hanuman is the devoted servant. And somewhere in the background, there are these monkey warriors—Vanaras—who help Rama defeat Ravana and rescue Sita.

That’s the story we’ve all been told. The story where Rama is right about everything and anyone who opposes him deserves what they get.

Anand Neelakantan’s Vanara asks a different question: What if we actually listened to the monkey people? What if we heard their side of the story?

And once you hear it, the Ramayana starts looking very different.

Through the Eyes of Those Who Lost

Most retellings of the Ramayana focus on the winners. Rama. Lakshmana. Hanuman. The ones who triumphed.

Vanara does something different. It tells the story through the eyes of the vanquished—the Vanara tribe who fought in someone else’s war and paid the price for it.

We see everything through three pairs of eyes: Baali, Sugreeva, and Tara. And through them, we understand what was lost. What was sacrificed. What the “victory” actually cost the people who made it possible.

This isn’t a story where good defeats evil and everyone lives happily ever after. This is a story about how power destroys, how loyalty gets betrayed, and how the people who do the fighting are rarely the ones who benefit from the victory.

The Forest Around River Pamba

One of the most beautiful things about this book is how vividly it brings the world to life.

The forests around the river Pamba aren’t just a backdrop. They’re alive. You can see them through the eyes of Sugreeva, Baali, and Tara—the thick vegetation, the river flowing through, the sounds and smells of forest life.

This is the world the Vanaras know. The world they love. The world that shaped them.

And watching what happens to this world—how it changes, how it’s lost—becomes one of the most painful parts of the story.

Building Kishkinda: Freedom From the Tribal Council

Baali and Sugreeva do something remarkable: they raise a city out of the forest.

This isn’t just about building structures. It’s about giving their tribe something they’ve never had before—freedom.

For years, their people lived under a tribal council that controlled everything. The council made the rules. The council decided who had power. And the common Vanaras had no say in any of it.

But Baali and Sugreeva change that. They build Kishkinda as a place where their people can live free from the council’s control. Where they can make their own choices. Where they can taste independence for the first time.

And the tribal council? They hate it. They’re envious. They spent all those years unable to do what these two brothers accomplished. Unable to give their people freedom. Unable to build something that actually worked.

That envy, that resentment from the old guard who couldn’t do what Baali and Sugreeva did—it runs through the whole story. It’s part of what makes the tragedy inevitable.

Sugreeva’s Inner Voice: The Grey Emotions

The most uncomfortable and most honest part of this book is getting inside Sugreeva’s head.

Because Sugreeva loves his brother. He really does. Baali is everything to him—his hero, his protector, his closest companion.

But underneath that love, there are other feelings. Darker feelings. The kind we don’t like to admit to.

Jealousy. Because Baali is stronger, more charismatic, more loved.

Lust. For Tara, the woman both brothers want.

Selfishness. The desire to have what Baali has, to be what Baali is.

And Sugreeva hides these feelings. Even from himself. He wraps them up in love and loyalty and tells himself he’s a good brother, a good man.

But those feelings are there. Festering. Growing. Waiting.

Neelakantan doesn’t judge Sugreeva for having these emotions. He just shows them to you, raw and real. Shows you how love and hatred can exist in the same heart. How you can want the best for someone and also want to take everything from them.

The Moment With Jatayu

There’s this moment that captures everything about Sugreeva’s internal conflict.

Baali is fighting Jatayu, the giant bird. It’s a serious fight. Dangerous. Baali could die.

And Sugreeva is watching. Part of him is terrified for his brother. Part of him wants to help. The love he feels for Baali is real and powerful.

But there’s another part—a quiet, shameful part—that’s thinking other thoughts. What if Baali doesn’t make it? What would that mean for me? Could I finally step out of his shadow?

Neelakantan shows you this moment beautifully. The fraternal love is there, genuine and strong. But so are the darker feelings. The mixed emotions that Sugreeva can’t quite suppress.

It’s painful to read. Because it’s real. We’ve all had moments like that—where we love someone but also resent them. Where our better nature fights with our worst impulses.

And this is the beginning of the end. This is where the bond starts to crack.

Competing for Tara: When the Bond Breaks

The final break between the brothers comes when they compete for Tara’s love.

Tara is extraordinary. Beautiful, yes, but more than that—intelligent, capable, politically astute. Any man would want her.

Both brothers do. And Sugreeva, for once in his life, wants to win. Wants to be chosen. Wants to prove he’s not just second-best.

But he loses. Tara chooses Baali.

And something in Sugreeva breaks. The bond with his brother—already cracked—shatters completely. At least from Sugreeva’s end.

Because Baali still loves him. Still trusts him. Still sees him as his beloved younger brother.

But Sugreeva? Sugreeva can’t forgive this. Can’t accept it. The jealousy and resentment that were always there, buried under love, come roaring to the surface.

And that’s when everything starts falling apart.

Tara: The Leader They Wouldn’t Acknowledge

If anyone in this book deserves to be called a hero, it’s Tara.

Tara has everything a good leader needs. She understands politics—knows how to negotiate with other tribes, how to build alliances, how to navigate the complicated world of power and diplomacy.

She has medical knowledge. She saves lives. She heals the sick and wounded when no one else can.

And when Baali is away—off fighting or dealing with threats to the kingdom—Tara steps in. She leads. She makes decisions. She keeps Kishkinda running.

And she’s good at it. Really good.

But she’s a woman. And that’s a problem.

Fighting the Old Men

There are men on the council—old men, stuck in old ways—who hate that Tara has influence. Who think women shouldn’t lead. Who believe a woman’s place is behind the scenes, supporting her husband, staying quiet.

They pull her down. Undermine her. Question her decisions. Make her fight for every bit of respect.

And Tara has to navigate this constant resistance. Has to prove herself over and over again. Has to be twice as good to get half the recognition.

But she does it. She leads anyway. She proves she’s a great diplomat, a capable administrator, a wise decision-maker.

Despite the old men. Despite the system working against her. Despite having to fight for respect that would be automatically given to any man in her position.

That’s strength. Real strength. Not the kind that comes from physical power or dramatic gestures, but the kind that comes from persisting in the face of constant opposition.

How Civilization Ruins the Simple Life

This is where the book’s message becomes most powerful—and most painful.

In the final pages, through Tara’s eyes, we see what’s been lost.

The Vanaras used to live simply. Forest life wasn’t easy, but there was a kind of equality to it. A kind of freedom. People made decisions together. Women had voices. Life was hard but it was theirs.

Then came Kishkinda. The city. Trade. Wealth. Organization. Everything we call “civilization.”

And slowly, things changed.

The equality started disappearing. The voices of women started getting quieter. The hierarchies became more rigid. The violence became more acceptable.

The Vanaras looked at the “civilized” societies—the Devas, the humans, Rama’s people—and wanted to be like them. Wanted the sophistication, the culture, the advancement.

But they didn’t realize what they’d lose in the process.

The Treatment of Women in “Civilized” Societies

The book shows you, through specific incidents, how the supposedly advanced societies treat women.

There’s Ahalya—chained up, punished for something that wasn’t her fault. That’s how the Devas treat women who they think have been “dishonored.”

There’s Surpanakha—mutilated by Ram and Lakshman. She approaches them, expresses desire, and they respond by cutting off her nose. That’s how Rama’s people treat women who step out of line.

These are the “civilized” people. The “righteous” ones. The ones the Vanaras are supposed to admire and emulate.

And when Tara hears these stories, she’s shocked. Ashamed that her people are starting to look up to societies that treat women this way.

The Moment That Breaks Tara’s Heart

Then comes the moment that destroys something in Tara.

She hears about her own son, Angada. Hears how he treated Mandodhari—cruelly, violently, the same way Rama and Lakshman treated Surpanakha.

And the other Vanaras? They’re praising him for it. Celebrating his “strength” and “valor.”

This is her son. Her people. Doing exactly what the “civilized” societies do. Treating women as objects to be controlled and punished.

Tara is shocked. Ashamed. Devastated.

Because she realizes: her tribe has civilized. They’ve become like the very people she pitied. They’ve adopted the worst parts of those advanced societies.

The beauty and egalitarianism of their simple forest life—gone. Replaced by the cruelty and sexism of “civilization.”

And there’s nothing she can do to stop it. The change has already happened. Her people have already lost their way.

Baali: The Brother, Husband, and King

In traditional retellings, Baali is the villain. The one who wronged his brother. The one who deserved what he got.

But Neelakantan gives you a different Baali.

This Baali is lovable. Caring. He loves his brother Sugreeva deeply—trusts him completely, sees the best in him, wants him to succeed.

He’s a caring husband to Tara. Not perfect, but genuine in his love for her.

And he’s a just and valiant king. He built Kishkinda out of nothing. He gave his people freedom from the tribal council. He fought for them. Protected them. Led them well.

He makes mistakes, yes. He’s human. But he’s not a villain.

He’s just a good man caught in a situation that’s spiraling out of his control. A good man who loves and trusts the wrong person.

Humanizing the Mythological

This is what Anand Neelakantan does best: he takes characters from mythology—characters who’ve been turned into symbols and archetypes—and makes them human again.

Baali isn’t “the villain who wronged his brother.” He’s a man who built something beautiful and loved deeply.

Sugreeva isn’t “the wronged brother seeking justice.” He’s a man struggling with jealousy and inadequacy and desires he can’t control.

Tara isn’t “the wise woman in the background.” She’s a leader who should have been acknowledged as such but never was.

These are people. Complicated, flawed, real people living through impossible situations.

And that makes the tragedy hit so much harder. Because you care about them. You understand them. You see yourself in them.

The Point of View That Changes Everything

The genius of this book is that it tells the story from the point of view of the vanquished instead of the victors.

For thousands of years, the Ramayana has been told from Rama’s perspective. From the winners’ side. And in that version, everyone who opposed Rama was wrong. Everyone who died deserved it. Everyone who lost had it coming.

But what about the people who fought for Rama and still lost everything? What about the Vanara tribe who gave their lives, their freedom, their culture to help Rama win his war?

What did they get out of it? What did it cost them? What do they think about the “glorious victory”?

Vanara answers those questions. And the answers aren’t pretty.

The Vanaras helped Rama. They were loyal. They fought bravely. And in return, their king was killed, their society was changed forever, and their simple, equal way of life was destroyed.

That’s the real story. The one nobody tells because the winners are too busy celebrating.

Who Should Read This Book

Read this if:

• You love Indian mythological fiction
• You want to hear from the people mythology usually ignores
• You’re interested in seeing familiar stories from completely different perspectives
• You want complex, human characters instead of perfect heroes and pure villains
• You’re open to seeing Rama and the “righteous” characters critically

Skip this if:

• You can’t handle any criticism of Rama or questioning of his decisions
• You want your mythology straightforward with clear heroes and villains
• You need Rama to be portrayed as perfect and beyond reproach
• You’re looking for fast-paced action without much reflection

What Works

The perspective shift. Seeing the Ramayana through the eyes of the Vanaras—the vanquished, the used, the forgotten—changes everything. You can’t go back to seeing it the same way.

Tara as a character. She’s strong without being perfect. Capable without being superhuman. A leader who deserves recognition but never fully gets it. Real and compelling.

Sugreeva’s internal voice. The honesty about his grey emotions—the jealousy, lust, and selfishness concealed within love—is uncomfortable but powerful. This is how real people think and feel.

The critique of civilization. The book makes you think about what we lose when societies “advance.” About how equality can decrease as organization increases. About how simple doesn’t mean bad and civilized doesn’t mean good.

Baali’s portrayal. Turning the “villain” into a lovable brother, caring husband, and just king who didn’t deserve what happened to him—that’s powerful storytelling.

What Doesn’t Work As Well

Pacing. Some parts drag. The book could have been tighter in places.

The message can be heavy-handed. Sometimes you feel like you’re being lectured rather than shown. The themes are important but they don’t always come through organically.

Final Thoughts