In that hour when Prahastha—terror of the heavens and mightiest among the five royal champions of the demon world—fell, a dreadful tremor rippled through the realm of Rakshasas. His fall struck fear in the hearts of demons, and the mere utterance of the name Rama sent shivers through their sinews. The tongues of the fugitives—those who had fled from the tempest of battle—had borne witness to the unimaginable, and their accounts now haunted the hearths of common demon folk. No longer could they raise voice against their king, nor yet stand tall with courage, for dread of death by vanara hands gnawed at their resolve.
The might, the swiftness, the burning fists and divine armament of the simian warriors echoed like thunder among the alleys of Lanka, repeated by those fortunate—or cursed—enough to return from the storm of battle. The monkey hosts, once mocked, now towered in the minds of demons, their glory blotting out the lofty boasts of Asura veterans. Even the brutish herds grew contemplative, their minds beginning a slow passage from demon to man. In hush and shadow, murmurs of discontent began, whispers born of truth and fear, circling quietly around the injustice wrought upon Rama and the crimes of their king.
Among the few bold returners, some dared speak—though with trembling hearts—of Akampana’s death at the hands of the mighty Neela. Ravana, monarch of rakshasas, reeled with disbelief, for such a calamity had not graced even the edges of his darkest guesses. He summoned his court, whose gathering shone with brilliance, like the conclave of Devas beneath Indra’s gaze.
But now, even Ravana—prideful bearer of boons, scorner of the worlds, master of power and peril—felt the tremble of loss. Akampana, the hero who once caused the thunder-throne of Indra to quake, who slew the celestial steeds and elephants, lay slain. Such a fall, Ravana declared, was not to be forgiven.
“I heed no counsel!” he roared, “I shall lead the army myself and pour forth wrath upon this enemy! Let Rama and Lakshmana vanish beneath my fire, as forests vanish before a raging blaze! Let their flesh nourish beasts of the wilderness. I shall paint the battlefield with simian blood.”
Thus Ravana mounted his chariot, drawn by steeds of immense strength. The chariot glittered like lightning, emblazoned with celestial metals and adorned with cruel beauty. Demon soldiers blared their trumpets, drums thundered like war clouds, conches sang aloud, sinews were slapped in frenzy, and weapons danced in air, slicing the wind in madness. Flags fluttered like omens; tridents pointed forth; swords sang through the sky. They believed their force invincible, drunk upon illusions of might.
Colossal in form, Ravana seemed a living cloud, his eyes two burning orbs of wrath. Among the host of demons he shone like Rudra, God of the storm. Around him gathered legions of terrible splendour, while Ravana, moving like a vast sea, beheld the monkey army, who held trees and stones as weapons, and whose host now covered the earth like the tide of time itself.
Then Rama, sovereign of righteousness, turned to Vibhishana and asked, “Who leads this fearsome tide that rushes toward us? See their many banners and mighty weapons—bows, axes, maces, and pestles! Their formations roll like rivers of death.”
Vibhishana, wise and loyal, lifted his gaze and began: “O Prince! That tall warrior upon the colossal elephant is Praveera Bahu, king of wild demon tribes, subduer of beasts, master of arms and the sword, feared for his brute strength. The chariot crowned with a lion banner and clad in silver is Indrajit, the prince of illusion, wielder of dark arts, robed in rainbow flames. Behind him comes Athikaya on a ten-steed chariot, tall as Vindhya and Mahendra, a deadly archer and warrior of Athis rank.
“The red-eyed Mahodara, sounding his bells, is courage incarnate. The gleaming horseman with a mighty pestle, whose brightness rivals’ clouds at sunset, is Pisacha, swift as the thunderbolt. That silver-flashing demon with the thunder’s impact is Trisiraska, mounted upon a colossal ox. Kumbha, holding bow and arrows, with Ketu upon his banner, rushes like a storm cloud. Nikumbha, bearer of a gold-and-diamond bludgeon, is graced by gods with invincibility, known for savage deeds. Narantaka, who mocks the mountains to feed his bloodlust, rides a chariot lit with fire and jewels.
“Ghostly hordes follow: demons with camel, horse, elephant, and tiger faces, armed with pestles and tridents. Ravana, their sun among stars, silenced the pride of gods. With jeweled umbrella shining like the moon, crowned and crowned again, he appears as Rudra among his Ganas. He who humbled Yama and Kubera, whose form rivals the Vindhya, whose ear-rings turn like chariot wheels, now stands before us. His brilliance rivals the sun—blinding and terrible. None may look upon him without awe. Around him march his champions, living mountains, armed with weapons forged in fire and fear.”
Then Rama, the destroyer of evil, said: “He stands like the Lord of Death, encircled by elements of ruin. Yet by fate, this wicked one now faces me. The fire in me, born of Sita’s abduction, shall be quenched only with his end.”
With calm fury, Rama lifted his great bow. Lakshmana stood behind, eyes sharp as lightning. Ravana, meanwhile, sent forth commands: “Guard the gates, the sacred halls, the stores of arms. Let none defile Lanka while I deal with these beasts. These monkeys, emboldened by my presence here, dream of conquest. Let them tremble!”
Then Ravana tore into the monkey legions like a whale through a tide. His astras flashed like comets, cutting through the stunned simians. Sugreeva, brave among the brave, seized a mighty boulder and hurled it, but Ravana shattered it with a single arrow. Another arrow, blazing like Shakti itself, struck Sugreeva down, and he fell like Mount Krouncha struck by the divine spear of Kumara.
Demon troops roared with triumph at the fallen vanara king. But Gavaksha, Gavaya, Sushena, Rishabha, Jyotirmukha, and Nala, undeterred, lifted mountains and charged. Yet Ravana, alight with fury, turned their mountains to ash, and arrows flew like storms. The vanaras dropped, unconscious in the field, while Ravana’s arrows rained upon their kin.
The simians cried aloud, overwhelmed, and sought refuge in Rama. “O Lord of Dharma,” they cried with folded hands, “you vowed to destroy this demon—grant us strength to assist you!”
Rama replied: “Lakshmana, go with them. Be vigilant. Ravana is no ordinary foe. His wrath may shake the heavens. Find his weaknesses. Know your own. Guard yourself and your companions. Let no moment pass unheeded.”
Lakshmana, embracing Rama with reverence, offered prayer and marched forth. Meanwhile, Ravana’s arrows fell like torrents, his arms like trunks of wild elephants, his might unmatched. But then stood Hanuman, mighty and steadfast, restraining the tempest of Ravana’s bolts. Raising his hand like a thundercloud, he declared:
“O Ravana! You were granted immunity from gods, demons, Gandharvas, Yakshas, and Rakshasas. But you did not ask protection from the vanaras. Now behold—this palm, imbued with dharma, may tear soul from body. Know, I speak not in vain. Fate now seeks balance, and you are the weight.”
And so, the drama of heaven and earth moved toward its destined reckoning.
