When the tidings of Athikaya’s fall reached Ravana, mighty king of Lanka, his soul, like a rudderless vessel in a tempest, lost anchor and drifted into a gulf of helpless silence. Grief, like a howling wind of the night, swept over him, rending his proud composure, and madness circled his brow like a crown of smoke. To him, Athikaya—son of Dhanyamali, towering scion of Kumbhakarna’s line—was the breath of Lanka’s glory, the flame upon which the hopes of demons danced in dignity.
And now, Rama’s unseen force had sent to Yama’s halls the mightiest—the iron-willed Dhumraksha, the unshaken Akampana, the lordly Prahastha, and the colossal Kumbhakarna. Each, a fortress of power, each, a boon-bearing terror to the three worlds. They who met war with a lover’s eagerness and bore victory as their natural ornament had perished, and their guarding hosts lay slain in heaps. Where vanished their strength, their discipline, their years of unmatched training? How did their divine boons come to ash and ruin?
Ravana’s voice cracked in agony. My son—he who knew the mysteries of dark arts and bound Rama and Lakshmana in enchanted arrows—had entrapped even gods. No sage, no celestial, no titan of boon could undo what he wove. What guile, what gift, what unseen strength unfastened such chains? I am baffled. By my command, heroes undefeated joined the fray and were dashed by monkey arms. Now in all my legions, I see none who can bring Rama to his knees. The might of my race falls like ripe fruit before the bow of this prince. What power flows through his shafts? What divine fire lurks in his wrath?
Let the infantry be sent to guard Ashoka grove, where Vaidehi sits veiled in sorrow. Let the forts and courts be sealed. Let every soldier’s step be watched. I must know the life and breath of our force. He gathered composure and cried to his commanders: O sons of night! Let vigilance be your breath and blood. Watch the monkey movements in every hour. Be alert in sun and shade, and bring me word of every footfall, every plan, every whisper among them. In my pride I mocked them, but now, let none among you think the simians low. Report if they rest, attack, or form rank. The demons, bound by their lord’s grief, stood silent and solemn.
Ravana, pierced by sorrow like a shaft that cannot be withdrawn, returned to his resting hall, his spirit scorched with fury and loss. Like a wounded serpent, he writhed, and as the news came—Devanthaka, Trisira, and their companions slain—he roared with grief. Like blood from a lion’s torn flank, his tears fell, and with a single gesture, he bade the messengers leave him.
Moved by this spectacle, Indrajit, the prince of night, approached. O lord of demons! O, father revered! Let not your glory bend in sorrow like a withered branch. Know this: whosoever is struck by my arrows shall not see another dawn. I shall carve Rama and Lakshmana as a farmer cleaves the field and scatter them like seeds in the soil of battle. Yama shall feast on their breath. Hear my vow—it is firm as fate. I shall fill their veins with my fire-tipped arrows. Let Indra, Vishnu, Rudra, Agni, Surya, and all the gods gaze upon my wrath, as once they beheld the vastness of Vishnu at the sacrifice of Bali the great.
With his father’s leave, Indrajit mounted his chariot, drawn by phantom donkeys, beaming with war-light and dark craft. Behind him rolled a tide of armed demons—bows and curved blades, shields of iron and bone, tridents and hammers, axes and sickles, maces and stone clubs—like Yama himself split into a thousand forms. Their beasts were horses and elephants, tigers and lions, scorpions and wolves, bats and night-foxes. The air broke with conches, drums, and terrible horns, mixing with the howls of monsters to make a dirge of destruction.
Clad in white, Indrajit shone like the full moon rising from the grave. Women with golden fans jeweled in rubies cooled his brow. The last words of Ravana burned in his ears: Son, thy brilliance matches the sun. You once struck down Devendra—shall Rama trouble thee?
The prince encircled his field, chanting mantras of ruin and sacrifice, sanctifying his chariot, his steeds, and his arms. He summoned both divine and dark powers, placing the sky and the shadow under his command. Then vanished he from all eyes, cloaked in illusion.
Only his voice thundered from the air, while his arrows, sanctified by Naleeka and Naracha rites, rained upon the simians like stars gone mad. Maces and spears fell from shadowy clouds. Heads rolled, limbs flew—yet no foe was seen. The monkeys fought with trees and boulders, but struck only air. Warriors climbed skyward to trace the invisible assailant, but were hurled down broken.
The field grew wet with simian blood. Those who fled died in terror; those who stood died in valor. The fury of Indrajit painted a nightmare across the heavens. His arrows, more numerous than storm-clouds of Sharad season, rained like a deluge of iron. Pestles and spears fell like meteors and blazing stars.
Mighty vanaras—Mynda and Gaja, Jambavantha, Neela, Sugreeva, Rishabha, Angada—feel senseless. The dark art raged unchecked, and laughter—savage, spectral, and unseen—split the sky. The simian forces quailed. Arrows fell like sunlight through a thousand mirrors. The gods wept, the earth shuddered.
Indrajit, hidden, filled the air with weapons. His joy, cruel and ghoulish, echoed in every stroke. The battle of dharma stood still. No vanara could rise against the unseen. The sky held only terror and steel. Even the colossal warriors—Angada, Gandhamadana, Sugreeva, Deivida, Mynda, Neela, Gavaksha, Gavaya, Kesari, Hariloma, Vidyutdamstra, Suryanana, Jyotimukha, Dadhimukha, Pavakaksha, Nala, Kumuda—all fell, struggling for breath.
Then, upon Rama and Lakshmana fell showers of flaming arrows. Yet Rama, unmoved, looked about and spoke softly to his brother. O, steadfast Lakshmana, this son of darkness rains enchantments and arrows upon us, proud of the boons granted by Brahma. He fights without honour, from the sky and the shadow. This sorcery is terrible and cannot be broken by force. Yet heed me—bear it with courage. Let us too employ a ruse. Let us fall to earth in feigned unconsciousness. Thus, shall the demon believe victory is his and return to Lanka in pride. Then shall we rise, and with divine strategy strike him true.
So, Rama and Lakshmana, followed by the vanara host, lay still, as if vanquished. Indrajit, with a thunderous laugh that split cloud and cliff, returned to Lanka and proclaimed his triumph. That day’s battle—dark as eclipse and dreadful as the world’s end—swung to the side of deceit and wicked craft. Yet its triumph was fleeting, and its fire, though fierce, would find water in time.
