The vanara hosts, steadfast in duty and pressed by time’s relentless flow, hastened again to their charge, for delay breeds decay, and the enemy, now hollow in heart and store, must be struck where spirit falters.
Then spoke Sugreeva, lord of simian clans, unto Hanuman, son of the Wind, venerable and strong: “What yet remains, O noble one, to bring this war to its destined end? The hour is ripe, the code of war calls us forth, for Ravana, robbed of hope, robbed of sons—Kumbhakarna, and four pillars of his future—reels in desperation, and his might is a shadow of yore.”
With a command full of fire, he urged the gathering of valorous vanaras, fierce and torch-bearing, armed with trunks as weapons, and bade them descend upon Lanka. When the sun withdrew behind the western veil and night in her smoky cloak dimmed the sky, the simians, blazing like living fire, marched into Lanka’s heart, seizing strongholds and vital turns.
The demon sentries, shaken like deer in floods, fled at the sight of fire-ringed warriors; fear clutched them as torrents clutch the banks of a swollen stream. Then the vanaras, with joy unrestrained and the fury of a tempest, cast flames upon ramparts, arches, and crossroads; they ignited a thousand abodes wherein wicked rakshasas lay.
The fire danced its dread dance, consuming halls and hoards, jewels and silver, flowing like molten earth. Stores of silks and leather goods, embroidered robes for court and war, turned to ash. The armoury, once glistening with spears and bows, shields and quivers, now but heaps of dust and embers.
The stables and sheds that bore trappings for steeds, elephants, and royal palanquins lay in ruin; the winds bore ash like funereal banners to the sea’s embrace. Mighty maces, pestles, swords, all made mute by fire. In another bastion, wool, tiger pelts, deer hides—all perished tracelessly in the conflagration. The fire spread with no mercy, engulfing groves and plazas where demons danced and drank—now struck down.
Thousands perished, and many fled with women and babes, like beasts in dread of forest flames. The fire soared, licking at the heavens, as though to touch the Sun God himself, roaring like thunderclouds in wrath. Burning orbs flew aloft like stars descending, as if the sky rained meteors, cursed by some ancient seer. The entrances and windows, cloaked in flame and smoke, became visions of a wrathful sky breaking upon the earth. Palaces aflame seemed like mountains ablaze; women fled their lofty chambers like startled birds.
The burning towers fell like autumn leaves in the fire. Lanka blazed like Mount Himavat under cosmic wrath. The forts, bright with flame, resembled trees in full scarlet bloom. Elephants and steeds, set free from fire’s jaws by simian hands, thundered across Lanka, trampling earth in panic, turning the city into a doomsday floodplain. Elephants clashed with horses; horses thundered with hooves that echoed sky and sea, as if all five elements warred together.
The sea itself, aglow with the fire’s reflection, shimmered as though it wept waves of blood. The inferno grew such that the earth seemed ablaze; soot-laden smoke choked the air, and women’s cries pierced the forest, mountain, and wave. Nothing moved but the fire and the weeping. Palaces crumbled like banks under spring torrents.
The night labored with destruction. The demons could only cry. Rama and Lakshmana, bows in hand, twanged strings in rhythmic chant. Rama’s twang was like Vedic hymns echoing through wrath, like Rudra arisen with his trident, the harbinger of death’s breath. The vanara cries mixed with the lion’s roar of Rama and Lakshmana.
Their combined wrath silenced the wails of Rakshasa hosts. Rama’s arrows fell upon Ravana’s palace like divine judgment. What the demons called preparation now proved the night of their doom. Then Sugreeva, king of the simian race, gave fierce decree: “Let every warrior stand his ground—at gates, walls, towers. Whoever turns his back on battle shall die by law of arms.” Vanaras with torches ablaze stood sentry; in their midst came Rama, remembering Ravana’s vile deeds, and his fury took shape like Rudra in celestial wrath.
Ravana, hearing of Lanka’s burning, roared like a thundercloud torn asunder. He summoned Kumbha and Nikumbha, sons of fallen giant Kumbhakarna, and bade them destroy the invaders. With them came Yupaksha, cruel and invincible, Sonitaksha, tower of wickedness, Praghanjana, swift and undefeated, and Kampana, heir to cruelty.
“O warriors of the night!” cried Ravana, “Strike now and let none survive!” Their war cry thundered across Lanka. The sky itself felt the heat of battle, fire from below, and hatred from above. Moonlight and starlight joined the blaze; ornaments, weapons, and armor of demons shone with a weird and unnatural light. Both forces were aflame—demons for vengeance, vanaras for justice divine. The demons marched with banners high, elephants armored, swords, axes, tridents, and double-edged maces, all spared from the earlier fire.
Their thirst for vanara blood raged like wildfire. The bells on chariots and elephants chimed, their sound mingling with the breeze, casting an eerie calm across the waiting fields. The demons, adorned in sandal paste, garlanded in fragrant blooms, performed drills that declared their readiness. Then they leapt into the flames like moths of malice, crossing into the fire-draped battlefield.
The vanaras answered with stones and trees, hearts drunk with faith. They crashed upon the demons like a living storm. Arrows flew. Tridents spun. Simians fell with fists clenched; demons fell with swords half-swung. One bit, another kicked. One screamed, “You are finished!” and the other, “Then come and finish me!” The battlefield echoed not with speech but with growls, war-cries, and the sound of death’s loom weaving its web.
The clash grew dreadful. Arms, arrows, and minds found both triumph and futility. Demons struck down dozens, but the vanaras, vast as sea tide, encircled them. Their numbers, their spirit, their cunning—all conspired toward victory.
Yet the Rakshasas fought with skill and valor undiminished. The battle was fierce, a balancing of cosmic scales. The fate of the worlds, the dharma of heaven and earth, now rested in the fire-wreathed hands of war.
