Ravana, once invincible monarch of rakshasas, felt vanquished in battle to Rama, yet spared, for Rama, noblest of men, struck not the unarmed nor the wounded. Ashamed, the demon king returned to his palace, burdened with the anguish of defeat. “Alas!” he cried, “How could I, master of might, fail against a mortal, a man of flesh, reared in the womb of nature’s frailty?” His pride shattered, his wrath humbled, and ego silenced—for Rama, lion among men, subdued him as Garuda restrains the coils of a serpent.
He pondered the arrows of Rama, as if they were the thunder-bearing staff of Brahma, striking with celestial wrath. Seated on his golden throne, he muttered, “I, who deemed myself superior to Indra, have tasted defeat at the hands of one born of man. My austerities, rituals, and heavenly boons lie in ruins. In ancient days, Brahma’s words warned that my end shall come not by deva or danava, nor by Yaksha or Gandharva, but by man whom I scorned, and beasts whom I mocked.”
He recalled the curse of King Anaranya, of the Ikshvaku line, who, with dying breath, condemned him: “A man born in my lineage shall slay thee, O vile demon.” Now, Ravana saw in Rama, son of Dasaratha, the fulfilment of that fateful decree. He remembered too the hermit Vedavathi, reborn as Sita, who through her sacred bond with Rama now completes the wheel of retribution. Curses from Parvati, from Nandi of Kailasa, from Varuna’s daughter—burdens of fate—all gather to strike in this hour of reckoning.
Resolving anew, Ravana commanded, “Let the demon warriors guard every path and portal of Lanka. Let none pass unchallenged. Wake Kumbhakarna, the giant unconquered, who lives in sleep bound by the rhythm of time.” Thus, amidst sorrow and fear, he summoned the slumbering titan, for even as Prahastha fell, hope remained in that colossal form.
Swiftly, the guards went to Kumbhakarna’s lair, where massive doors and fragrant airs adorned the mighty cave. But his breath, a tempest of force, shook them even before they entered. He slept unmoved like a mountain beneath storm, his hair like bristling thorns, his exhale a serpent’s hiss, his inhale a whirlwind drawing them in. Crowns and ornaments gleamed with pale golden light, casting an eerie glow through cavern gloom.
With food, flowers, sandal paste, and loud chants, they tried to stir him. Conches roared, trumpets blared, weapons clanged—but he stirred not. Even as the sound echoed through seas and skies and birds perished from the din, Kumbhakarna slept on. In desperation, guards struck him with stones, pulled his hair, bit his ears and fingers, danced and leapt upon his chest—yet he moved not. Their strength exhausted, hunger stirred the scent of food, which at last awakened the sleeping terror. He yawned—a cavernous gape like sun upon Mount Meru—scattering many guards by his tremor.
As he rose, the earth trembled, and his eyes glowed like fireballs flashing lightning through clouds. Like Yama at the world’s end, his form inspired dread. He consumed the food without a word, and seeing the frightened guards bow before him, he asked with a calm and measured voice, “Why this untimely rousing? Is our king in peril? Has Lanka been breached? Speak—there must be a grave reason for your disturbance.”
Yupaksha, the loyal guard, knelt and spoke: “O lord! We fear not gods nor demons, but from mortals rises peril. Colossal monkeys encircle Lanka. One among them burned our gates and slew Prince Aksha. Rama, whose might equals none, has defeated our king and cast doubt upon his power. No celestial ever wrought such a threat.”
At these words, Kumbhakarna, roused and wrathful, swore, “I shall slay Rama and Lakshmana and feed on men, while demons feast on monkeys. Let my brother’s honour be avenged!” But wise Mahodara, ever measured, stepped forth: “O great warrior, pause and hear the king. Let wisdom guide your strength. Choose victory through counsel.”
Kumbhakarna, fearsome yet loyal, set forth toward Ravana, shaking the earth with each step. Guards rushed to announce his coming, and Ravana, heartened by hope, awaited his brother. As he advanced, Lanka trembled beneath his tread, his form a shadow cast by the sun upon all lands. People gathered, casting flowers, hands joined in prayer, for in him they saw their salvation.
Monkeys at the fortress beheld the advancing titan and quailed. Some fled, some lay prostrate, some ran to Rama, their refuge in dread. Kumbhakarna loomed as if touching the sun, and chaos spread among simians like leaves before storm.
Thus opened a new chapter in Lanka’s fate, one that Rama and destiny would inscribe for the greater good of all the worlds.
