The Morality of Betrayal

Vibhishana was not a stranger observing Ravana's actions from afar, he was his brother. He belonged to the same Kula, had grown up within the same kingdom and shared the privileges as well as the responsibilities that came with being part of the royal household.

Wasn't there, then, a duty for him to stand by Ravana? A blood bond that demanded loyalty even in the face of disagreement?

Yet, should Vibhishana have gone against dharma to fulfil his duty as a brother? Does the sanctity of a blood-bond outweigh the responsibility to stand against injustice?

Kumbhakarna, too, recognised Ravana's wrongdoing and reprimanded him for his actions. Yet, when the war arrived, he chose to fight alongside his brother. Vibhishana and Kumbhakarna both knew Ravana had done wrong, both advised him against his actions, but their understanding of brotherhood led them in opposite directions. One stood by his brother despite knowing he was wrong; the other stood against him because he believed he was wrong.

Vibhishana had every right to condemn Ravana's actions. He had every right to refuse to participate in them. But did he have to become instrumental in bringing about his brother's defeat?

There is a clear distinction between refusing to support wrongdoing and actively supporting the force that seeks to punish it.

But then again, is remaining neutral in a war between dharma and adharma, between brothers and enemies, a morally defensible position anyways? Can silence itself become a form of participation? Vibhishana was no ordinary observer. He was the brother of the king, a prince of Lanka and someone whose position gave his words and actions considerable significance. Was simply walking away enough when the fate of an entire kingdom was at stake?

How would anyone expect Vibhishana to resolve this dilemma that ended up shaping the course of an epic?

This brings us to an obligation far greater than what he owed his brother, the one he owed his kingdom.

Vibhishana was not merely Ravana's brother. He was a prince of Lanka. His responsibilities, therefore, extended beyond a personal relationship.

He knew Lanka like his own child. He understood its strengths, its weaknesses and its military capabilities. By joining Rama, he placed that knowledge at the disposal of an opposing army. One could argue that he was helping remove a tyrannical ruler. But one could equally ask whether he had the right to assist an invading force in defeating the kingdom in which he had grown up, the land that was home to his people.

Should a citizen's allegiance belong to the ruler, the state or the principles upon which the state ought to function? And if allegiance belongs to the kingdom rather than its ruler, does that obligation disappear when the ruler acts unjustly? Or does it become even greater? Knowing that Ravana's actions could bring devastation upon Lanka, should Vibhishana not have been on the side of his kingdom, even if that meant standing against his own brother?

The innocent people of Lanka were not collectively responsible for Ravana's decision to abduct Sita. Yet they stood to suffer the horrible consequences of the war.

A ruler's actions rarely affect only the ruler. His decisions become the fate of those he governs and promises as a state, to take care of. From this perspective, perhaps Vibhishana believed that removing Ravana was not simply an act of allegiance to Rama, but a means of saving Lanka from a king who was leading it towards destruction.

But then, another question arises: if Vibhishana wished to protect his people, why did he help bring a war to their doorstep?

He knew that joining Rama meant strengthening an army whose ultimate objective was to defeat Lanka. He knew its military vulnerabilities, understood its defences and willingly placed that knowledge in the hands of the very force that would attack it. The soldiers who would fight and the families who would lose their loved ones were not responsible for Ravana's actions. Why, then, should they bear the consequences of Vibhishana's choice?

Perhaps he believed that Ravana's removal was inevitable and that helping Rama was the only way to prevent an even greater catastrophe. But was he entitled to make that calculation on behalf of an entire kingdom? Could the suffering of his people be justified by the promise of a better ruler?

Perhaps his betrayal of his brother was, in his understanding, an act of loyalty towards his kingdom. His betrayal was significant in preventing the uncertain future that bestowed Lanka.

And perhaps this is the greatest irony of his decision: the very act that could be interpreted as a betrayal of his family could also be interpreted as the fulfilment of his responsibility towards his people.

But there is yet another question. What happens when the man who helped overthrow a king becomes the king himself?

Following Ravana's defeat, Vibhishana was crowned the ruler of Lanka. This is where his story becomes even more complicated.

Would an ordinary citizen of Lanka have readily trusted a new ruler who had abandoned his own brother, joined an opposing army and contributed to the defeat of the kingdom's previous king, when the entire ruling system banked on loyalty? Would they see him as the man who saved them from Ravana or as the man who helped a foreign army bring their kingdom to its knees?

And would we evaluate Vibhishana differently had he joined Rama, helped defeat Ravana and then refused the crown? Would his actions appear more selfless? Does the fact that he eventually benefited politically from the outcome, even if that was never his intention, change how we perceive his decision?

Perhaps it is unfair to judge a person's intentions by the rewards that follow their actions. After all, the fact that someone benefits from a decision does not give a certainty that the decision was made simply for personal gain.

And if not Vibhishana, who would have been worthy enough to inherit Lanka's throne? Would another ruler, perhaps less acquainted with its people and its administration, have been a better choice?

There may be no definitive answer. But the questions themselves make it difficult to regard his actions as an uncomplicated triumph of righteousness.

We call Vibhishana righteous because he chose dharma over his brother. But what if another person, standing in his position, had chosen loyalty over conscience? Would we call that person honourable, or complicit?

Would we admire a man who stood beside his brother, knowing he was wrong, because he refused to abandon his family?

Or would we admire a man who abandoned his brother, knowing that his decision would aid an army attacking his homeland, because he refused to abandon his principles?

And what if both men genuinely believed they were fulfilling their duty?

Consider, for a moment, an alternate ending. What if Rama had lost? What if Lanka had been destroyed and Vibhishana's decision had led to the ruin of his own people? What if his name had survived not as the righteous brother who chose dharma, but as the prince who helped bring about his kingdom's downfall?

Would we still defend his choice with the same conviction?

Or does the righteousness we attribute to Vibhishana depend, in some measure, on knowing how the story ended?

Perhaps victory has a way of making decisions appear more righteous in retrospect. We judge the choices of those who win differently from those who lose, even when the intentions and actions remain unchanged.

And therein lies a rather unsettling flaw in the way we understand morality: we often judge decisions by the worlds they create rather than the principles with which they were made.

A victory can settle a war, but does it necessarily settle the question of who was right?

The first fire Vibhishana lit after the war was not a diya, it was his brother’s agni sanskar. Perhaps, then, Diwali asks something more of us than celebration. A diya does not simply destroy darkness, it only pushes it back far enough for us to see what lies around us. It enables our vision. Vibhishana’s story works the same way. It does not tell us whether loyalty or conscience should have won. It only gives us enough light to see how difficult that choice really was. Maybe the truest way to honour Diwali is not to be certain about who was right, but to keep the lamp lit a little bit longer to gain enough perspective.