I'm the youngest in the room — and nobody takes what I say seriously.

Look at who Aṅgada is standing next to when he is chosen. Sugrīva, the king. Jāmbavān, older than anyone can count. Hanumān Jī, who leapt the ocean and burned the city. Aṅgada is a prince, but the young one. If anyone had reason to walk into Rāvaṇa's court trying to prove something, it was him.

He does not. When Lord Rāma gives him the task, the poet lets us hear his thought: the Lord's work is already accomplished; this is simply the Lord honouring me. He goes because he was sent, not to make his name. Then the poet lists what he carries in, and none of it is his age, rank or voice. Prabhutāī (प्रभुताई), the Lord's greatness, held in the heart. Prabhu pratāpa (प्रभु प्रताप), the Lord's glory. From those two comes the third: sahaja asaṁkā (सहज असंका) — fearless by nature, not by effort.

That is the whole answer, and it is uncomfortable. Aṅgada's authority is borrowed. And the text is saying: everyone's is. The grey-bearded man at 10:19 also speaks with borrowed weight — the firm's, the family's, thirty years of other people's trust. The only question in any room is whose authority you carry, and whether you know it.

Now listen to the room. Rāvaṇa is told an envoy is at the door, and he laughs: kahā̃ kara kīsā — where has this monkey come from? That is the exact tone. Not hostility. Amusement. Contempt too relaxed to bother being angry.

Then Aṅgada walks in, and the whole assembly stands up. The poet does not explain why. Something walks in with the young prince that the court recognises before it can stop itself, and Rāvaṇa is furious that his own people stood. Then the exchange everything turns on. 'Who are you, monkey?' Aṅgada has true answers to hand. Crown prince of Kiṣkindhā. Son of Vāli — a name that, a few lines later, will make the ten-headed king visibly uncomfortable. He gives none of them first. His first sentence is: I am the envoy of Raghubīra. Not who I am. Whose I am. Rāvaṇa answers by calling him kapipota (कपिपोत) — monkey-cub — and telling him to mind his words. He does not flinch, and he does not raise his voice.

And there is a small physical thing the poet insists on. Like a lion walking into a herd of maddened elephants, Aṅgada bows his head and takes his seat. Both at once. The bow is courtesy — he is a guest, and behaves like one. The seat is presence — he does not hover at the back waiting to be invited, and he does not shove towards the throne. That is the third move. Not shrinking. Not loud. Bow the head; take the seat.

Say the difficult part too: the embassy fails. Rāvaṇa does not return Mother Sītā. Aṅgada plants his foot in the middle of the court and not one champion in Laṅkā can shift it — and still he leaves without what he came for. Being taken seriously and getting your way are not the same. The verse promises the first, never the second.

First, decide whose envoy you are before you walk in. Not 'I need them to respect me' — that is the shrink-or-shout trap in a nicer coat. Whose interest are you carrying? The customer's. The numbers as they are. The people who will live with the decision. Write it in one sentence.

Second, say the thing once, plainly, with nothing in front of it. Not 'sorry, just a quick thought'. Aṅgada's first sentence had four words in it, and none of them was an apology.

Third, bow the head and take the seat. Literally. Be courteous to everyone, including the person who talked over you — courtesy is not shrinking. Then sit properly at the table, not perched at the edge of the room. Where you put your body tells the room what you are.

Fourth, when your point comes back at 10:19 in someone else's mouth, do not fight for the flag and do not swallow it. Say, calmly, 'Yes — that's the point I raised earlier. Here's the next step.' Once. Then let it go. A lion does not need every elephant to admit it is a lion.