Thus, came upon the fated dusk, a solemn turn in the grand saga of celestial strife—a momentous clash, not merely of flesh and steel, but of ancient principle and lawless ambition. Morality and wickedness met upon the field where cosmic order contended with unbridled chaos. The sun, in golden weariness, sank behind the western rim of the world, and with its departure, the sacred canon of warfare proclaimed a pause—no battles fought beneath the moon’s sovereign gaze. Yet the asuras, unruly and unbound by dharma, cared not for such constraints. Their tactics darkened with the night, drawing forth the reluctant vanaras into combat. A ghastly confusion reigned: in the pitch of night, demon struck demon, monkey slew kin—none could tell friend from foe, and the field became a frenzied cauldron of madness and blood.
The air thundered with cries—“Kill! Tear! Strike!”—Roars shook the heavens, echoing with primal fury. Out of that living shadow surged massive demon forms, their limbs like iron hills and their golden shields glinting like mountains of ayurvedic treasure. Emboldened by the cover of night, they fell upon the vanaras with the fury of predators starved—rending, devouring, leaving only shrieks behind. Yet the mighty monkey warriors did not yield. With the rage of kindled fire, they cracked open demon skulls with jeweled crowns, hurled horses and elephants into the dust with fists like thunderbolts. The skies bore witness to flying warriors, simians soaring and crashing upon chariots, breaking all that stood.
Rama and Lakshmana, armed with celestial precision, loosed their arrows through the shadows—each shaft a streak of golden fire, felling legions with divine accuracy. Dust stormed the battlefield in spectral waves, stirred by the hooves of elephants and steeds, choking breath and blinding sight. Warriors collapsed amidst invisible winds, their senses overcome. The battleground turned to a river of gore and earth, indistinguishable from mud, as flesh and blood merged with soil. Then rose a clamor—conches and trumpets, drums and wheels of chariots ringing like war-thunder across the darkness. Whinnies and trumpets of beasts, cries of the perishing, and the groans of shattered spirits merged into a dreadful music. Mount Trikuta itself echoed the dirge, as though the mountain had found its voice in the violence.
Even the noble monkey race of Golangoola, golden of fur and valorous in heart, fell prey to demonic hunger, torn alive by foul hands. Amidst the chaos, Angada, son of Vali, rose in wrath and hurled his mace upon the chariot of Indrajit, scattering steeds and slaying the charioteer. The son of Ravana vanished in mist, but his blow had been answered. Rama, witnessing Angada’s valor, praised him before the assembly of heaven and earth. Even the gods and sages took note, for all knew the dread powers of Indrajit. King Sugreeva and the noble Vibhishana beheld in this moment a sign, a crack in the shadow of Rakshasa doom.
But Indrajit, crafty and swollen with pride, nursed his insult in secret and devised darker arts. From the void he lost a storm of arrows, invisible and untraceable. He targeted the brothers—Rama and Lakshmana—his shafts writhing like venomous serpents. With deceitful sorcery, he bound them in the coils of the Nagastra, a divine weapon that entangled soul and flesh. The vanaras, aghast, wept in disbelief to see their champions fallen by such vile trickery. Indrajit, too frail to face the light of valor, embraced illusion and fear, misguiding the simian host and sapping their resolve.
Yet amid despair, Rama, the noble son of the land, stood composed and spoke with wisdom. He called forth Hanuman, the sons of Sushena, Commander Neela, Prince Angada, and the valiant Sarabha, Rishabha, and Skanda. These warriors took to the sky, bearing mighty trees as arms, seeking out Indrajit’s hidden station. But from behind veils of cloud, the son of Ravana assailed them with relentless arrows, piercing and blinding. Blood rained from their wounds, and the heavens darkened with pain.
Rama and Lakshmana, struck by thousands of shafts, looked as flame-trees in bloom—Palasa aglow with crimson petals. Indrajit mocked from the unseen, proclaiming that not even Indra nor the gods could discern him in such spectral battle. “What hope then have you, O mortals?” he cried. His arrows poured like torrential wrath, and the brothers, valiant yet overmatched by stealth, staggered and fell, their forms pierced without respite. Rama collapsed first—his divine bow clattering beside him, his frame a bed of arrows. Lakshmana beheld the sight and his spirit quailed.
The vanaras howled in sorrow. Grief and dread swallowed the field. Hanuman and others rushed to Rama’s side, hearts burning with anguish. Around them, the battle paused as all waited—waited for fate’s next decree. The fight between dharma and adharma, between the sons of light and the children of shadow, had reached a moment of grim stillness. Night, the eternal leveler, wrapped all—demon and bear, monkey and God—in a single shroud, respecting no power nor name. It accepted every soul, regardless of birth or might, into its silent domain.
But war yet breathed, and destiny’s pen had more to script. For though the light had dimmed, it was not extinguished, and even within the pitch of treachery, the fire of righteousness awaited its hour to blaze anew.
