The awakened Kumbhakarna, risen from his death-like slumber, moved like a mountain unchained, bringing dread and doom upon the Vanaras. In fury and confusion, he unleashed ghastly devices—some he crushed beneath his feet, some he devoured while alive, others he hurled afar like broken stars.
The brave hosts of monkeys, witnessing this grotesque spectacle, found their courage staggered and their ranks undone. Yet, in the marrow of this monstrous might, there stirred no steady flame of purpose.
His thoughts wandered like aimless winds; his beliefs shifted like loose sand. He claimed no enmity toward the monkey race, yet his hands dealt merciless ruin. He lauded Rama’s wrath as righteous, and in the same breath, called it cruel. He decried Ravana as unjust and avaricious, yet named him venerable and bound by word.
Thus did his tongue betray his spirit—what he uttered found no mirror in deed. He was no scion of true wisdom, but a brute vessel of power, an heir not to thought but to terror.
As he thundered through the battlefield, his every step matched the crash of tempests and the surge of oceans. Mountains seemed to recoil, the skies to weep.
His form immense and dreadful, the Vanaras, though valiant and divine in birth—Nala, Neela, Gavaksha, and the mighty Kumuda—scattered as if earth and heaven themselves had conspired to crush them. Some fled to sea, others to high trees, and some into the folds of hills, abandoning the cause in trembling haste.
Then rose Angada, son of Vali, amidst the falling spirits and whispered ruin. With voice like a conch in storm, he summoned faith to return. “O warriors of celestial lineage,” he cried, “do not let this fleeting terror deny the purpose of your being. Born of sacred cause, armed with proven worth, shall you now forsake the divine promise of your heritage? Fear is not the garment of those anointed by destiny.
This monster before you—know him for what he is—a creature of illusion, crafted by dark sorcery to unravel your hearts. His form is might without soul, fury without meaning. It is a shadow made to seem solid, a puppet strung by the black fingers of demon-kind. Stand, O heroes, stand and break the spell.
Do not measure his power with your eyes, but measure your soul against his lies. Even if death comes early, it shall come dressed in glory, and the gods shall honour your bones. But if you prevail, and you shall, the victory will be sung beyond the stars. Fight not for life alone, but for the truth of your cause, for virtue, and for Rama, in whose name demons burn like moths in the flame.”
Yet his words, though gold-wrought and heaven-touched, fell upon ears dulled by fear. The Vanaras, gripped in terror, murmured, “We cannot. Life, once lost, wins nothing. Glory upon death is a hollow trophy to the lifeless.
Better to breathe and live, than perish like fallen leaves.” Even as they spoke, Kumbhakarna moved forward—a nightmare in flesh, his eyes twin fireballs, his limbs dreadful with death. The very earth quaked at his presence.
The Vanaras, hearing the thunder of his approach, vanished like smoke in the wind. Thus, Angada’s task grew cruel—his voice a flame, but the hearts were stone.
Then, in that hour of dire need, came the chosen. Sugreeva’s core—Rishabha, fierce Sarabha, Mynda and Dwivida, Dhumra and Neela, Kumuda the strong, Sushena the wise, Gavaksha the valiant, Rambha, Tarana, Panasa, and mighty Hanuman—gathered their resolve and rushed to confront the moving mountain.
This force, born of purpose and prepared for peril, now encircled the demon giant. The battle thus joined was not of sinew alone but of soul—of light and shadow, of despair and divinity, of brute rage and holy purpose. Destiny itself stood watch. In this storm of violence and virtue, the field became the mirror of the cosmos, where faith and fear, blessing and curse, danced together in the wind of fate.
