In the fullness of time, the mighty mission of Hanuman approached its grand consummation. The son of Vayu, heart brimming with triumph, beheld with joy the fruit of his labour. His spirit soared like the winds themselves, charged with divine zeal, as his inner yearning—to behold Sita, to strike fear into the hearts of demons, and to carry word back to noble Rama—drew nigh to completion.
Yet one task remained. His keen mind pondered deeply: What blow shall bring grief to the rakshasas? What stroke shall make even their king tremble?
He had already shattered the jewel of Lanka—the famed Ashoka Garden—laying waste to a portion of the demon army and felling its finest commanders. But now, he thought, let me strike at the very bones of this city. The fortified palaces—let them fall! Little effort this shall cost, yet great glory it shall yield, by the grace of Rama and the blessings of virtuous Sita.
His tail, already a torch of divine fury, burned with unyielding flame, tongues of fire leaping forth to devour all it kissed—save Hanuman himself. With a might like unto thunderclouds crashing from the sky, he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, hurling fire upon palaces as if the very breath of destruction.
Fearless and swift as the wind-God himself, Hanuman stormed the house of Prah Astha, setting it ablaze. Then he kindled the flames upon Mahavamsa’s dwelling. One by one, he ignited the homes of Varadas’re, Suka, Sarana, Indrajit, and Jamb Umali—dread names now swallowed in fire.
He spared only the dwelling of noble Vibhishana. But the rest—the famed and opulent houses of Rasmi Ketu, Sarastro, Hasaan, Damstra, Romas a, and the fierce war-monger Dajreja—he consumed in a wreath of flame from every direction. No mercy shown.
The dreadful mansions of Viduthalai, Hasmukh, Karas a, Pisaca, Sunitha’s, Makar Aksha, Manawatu, Brahmastra, Naran taka, Kumbha, and the wicked Nikumbha—all fortified, all proud—now groaned under the crackle of fire.
Glowing with faith and fury, the mighty Hanuman turned to the palace of Ravana himself. Its opulence—its treasures and secrets—he offered to the flames. Every threshold, every door, every store of arms, lit and reduced to ash in but a blink. Vayu lent strength to Agni, and together they swept through the city’s heart, leaving behind molten gold, silver, and gem, dripping into ruin.
Hanuman danced amidst the inferno, tail alight like a celestial whip of flame. Whatever it brushed was devoured in a moment. The sky echoed with his thunderous roars as he darted from house to house. The rakshasas, in frantic terror, fled, crying out, “Agni himself walks among us—in the form of a monkey!”
Jewels blackened, metal melted, treasures bled into the earth. Still, the fire demanded more, unsated by any offering, like Mother Earth herself rising to consume Lanka.
The blaze, wild and many-faced, reached to heaven, touching forest and mountain, devouring without pause. No dust, only flame—pure, upright, terrifying. The fuel? The very flesh of demons. The city writhed as waves of fire shimmered like ten million suns, crashing like thunderbolts upon creation.
The fire curled upward like Kitsuka blossoms, spewing smoke and ash, forming blackened lotus-clouds. The rakshasas, speechless, murmured among themselves: This is no mere monkey. Nay—he is Indra, wielding the vajra. Or Kubera, or Yama, or Rudra, or the Sun himself. Nay—he is Kala, come to end our days. Perhaps even Brahma has taken this form to wipe away the demon race.
Indeed, the immeasurable, wondrous force of Vishnu seemed manifest in Hanuman’s wrath, laying waste to Lanka with divine certainty.
Homes, lives, trees, parks, palaces, ramparts—nothing stood. Demons, beasts, horses, chariots, elephants, birds—everything blazed. The kingdom collapsed into chaos and lamentation. Cries rang for children, elders, friends—those lost in the fury of battle and fire.
Hanuman, in his fury, had brought down warriors and guards alike, and the very soul of Lanka wept, as though cursed by the gods. The heavens watched in awe, the fiery downfall of Lanka like Brahma himself had cast his judgment upon it.
Then Hanuman stood still.
He surveyed the ruin—the scorched trees, shattered walls, flowing metals, palaces lost to the ages. His blazing tail, crowned in garlands of fire, shone like the many-rayed sun atop Tribute’s peak.
Having vanquished many demons and levelled countless strongholds, the son of Vayu bowed in silent prayer to Rama. And lo, the heavens rejoiced. From the abodes of the sages, Gandharvas, and Siddhas rained flowers and blessings. All marvelled at Hanuman’s strength—unsurpassed, unimaginable—and hailed him as the living form of Agni.
The burning of Lanka was spoken of as sacred, a holy act in the eyes of the divine. Joy could not be concealed in celestial realms, for evil had been struck down with righteous fire.
Through divine strategy, peerless might, the Favor of Sita, the breath of Vayu, and Rama’s assurance, Hanuman had fulfilled his charge. Now he was prepared to return swiftly to Kishkindha, to stand before Sugreeva and Rama, bearing word of triumph.
And thus, with the fire fading behind him and Lanka writhing in ash, Hanuman—beloved of gods, beacon of duty—turned his gaze to the next act in this grand, celestial tale.
