The focus of both warriors, Lakshmana and Indrajit, was fixed like arrows on a single point—victory over the foe. Vibhishana, scion of righteousness, stood apart, gazing upon the clash of titans, equals in might and fury.
As the demon legions surged towards him, he smote his bow with thunderous sound, sending tremors of war-readiness through the field, and loosed a storm of arrows upon the Rakshasa host. His shafts split demon bodies as mountains split in clashing, and the air rained gore and stone-like limbs. Around him, his four fierce guards joined the fray, wielding tridents, bludgeons, maces, and swords, striking down the enemies in grim delight.
Vibhishana’s form flared like a tusker amidst calves, terrible and majestic. He knew the hour was ripe. Turning to the vanara legions, he cried aloud: “O ye warriors of proven valor! Know that Ravana leans now upon this last bastion—his son, a conjurer born, a master of maya and dark art.
Why do ye tarry? When this one falls, the citadel of demons shall crumble. All their mighty sons—the war-trained Prahastha, the valiant Nikumbha, the giant Kumbhakarna, the invincible Kumbha, the proud Dhumraksha, the swift Jambumali, Mahamali, Asaniprabha who moves like thunder, Supthaghna, Yajnakopa, Vajradamshtra, Samhadi who was terror to foes, Vikata, Tapana, Manda, Praghasa, Praghana, Prajangha, Jhanga undefeatable, Agniketu of blazing might, Rasmiketu the radiant, Vidyutjihva of lightning tongue, Dwijihva, Suryasatru, Akampana, Suparsva, Chakramali, Kampana, the titans Devantaka and Narantaka—all these have fallen before your arms!
Ye have crossed the ocean with mere hands, and now but a small rivulet remains, no wider than a cow’s hoof. The pride and power of the demons lie already at your feet. I—though brother to this dark conjurer’s father—cannot strike him down. Though my spirit wills it, my eyes betray tears, unbidden. But Lakshmana, of great sinew and soul, shall bring silence to this sorcerer. You, O vanaras, tear through his guard!”
Thus, encouraged by the noble Vibhishana, the vanaras leapt forth with grim joy, striking the earth with their tails, roaring like lions, their battle cries a wild song like the peacocks’ dance at the scent of the rains. They pounced upon the Rakshasas, biting, scratching, flinging stones, branches, and trees.
Around Jambavan, king of bears and slayer of demons, gathered fierce Rakshasas, unrelenting, armed with tridents, axes, bows, and crude clubs. The tumult of battle roared like heaven’s war. Hanuman, leaping from the fray, set Lakshmana down, seized a mountain-stone and cast it upon the enemy, crushing them in thousands. Now the sorcerer Indrajit, grim and strong, waged a duel with his uncle Vibhishana, and soon turned his fury upon Lakshmana.
Arrows flew like flashing thoughts, their exchange faster than eye or breath. The warriors shone like sun and moon, half-hidden behind storm-clouds, their forms veiled by curtains of arrows. Their mastery of bow-craft—grasping shaft, drawing string, loosing shaft—passed unseen, all hidden in the blur of motion. Arrows filled the sky like locusts, until no sky remained. Indrajit for a moment ruled the clash, then the tide turned, and the outcome swayed like a pendulum.
Darkness fell, the sun dipped westward, blood from wounds flowed like rivers, drawing beasts of prey to feast upon the fallen. Their cries echoed through the field and forest. The air hung still, the fire waned, the waters fouled. Sages raised chants: “Let good descend upon the world.” The Gandharvas and celestials watched, hearts heavy. Then Soumithri, Lakshmana, struck down Indrajit’s steeds with four flaming arrows. With thunderbolt-like Bhalla, he severed the charioteer’s head. Undaunted, Indrajit seized the reins and drove his chariot while fighting still, an act of deft glory. Lakshmana’s arrows struck again, shaking his foe, while vanara champions Pramadhi, Rabhasa, Sarabha, and Gandhamadana soared through the sky, landing like meteors on the remaining steeds, and with crushing force, slew them. Indrajit, robbed of steeds and charioteer, burned with wrath.
Like the sun surrounded by its heat, he charged Lakshmana, arrows flying like divine flame. The fight grew into the likeness of mad elephants battling in a city, wild and irresistible. Demon and monkey forces ringed their heroes like walls. Then Indrajit, cunning in illusion, whispered to his guard, “The dusk has veiled the world. Friend and foe are alike hidden. Distract the vanaras while I fetch a chariot of black power.” So, saying, he vanished from sight, leaving the monkeys guessing—was this stealth war, or sorcery?
He crept to Lanka’s guarded vaults, drew forth a chariot decked in dark craft, yoked to devilish steeds, and a charioteer trained in the paths of shadows. Upon it he mounted—armed and dread, a fortress in motion. Back to battle he flew like a storm cloud, and loosed a torrent of arrows that laid vanaras low. His bow danced in circles, raining death from all sides. The simians fled to Lakshmana as men to Brahma.
In reply, Lakshmana, unshaken, struck and shattered his foe’s bow. Swiftly, Indrajit seized another and pierced Lakshmana with three venomous shafts. The prince answered with five, tearing Indrajit’s chest and drawing crimson torrents. Wounded in body and pride, Indrajit lost an arrow-storm, like Indra opening the heavens. Yet Lakshmana, unwavering, countered him arrow for arrow.
The demon master, surprised at such valor, struck again—this time with mystic arrows, soaked in mantra, but Lakshmana destroyed them mid-air, and with a mighty shot, slew the charioteer once more. The steeds ran wild, serving Indrajit no more. Lakshmana struck them with twin arrows each—enough to unnerve, not to slay. Indrajit, raging, loosed ten arrows, yet Lakshmana’s shield held firm.
Then, three arrows he placed upon Lakshmana’s brow, shining like a mountain with three summits. Lakshmana returned five arrows upon Indrajit’s forehead—blood ran like red blossoms. The two warriors, blazing in courage, stood bathed in blood, like Palasha trees in bloom. Each craved victory, each sought the other’s doom. In sudden wrath, Indrajit struck Vibhishana and the vanaras, too.
Vibhishana answered with fury, but Indrajit, with a mighty mace, slew his steeds. Grief-struck and desperate, he unleashed the Shakti weapon, sanctified by darkness, upon Vibhishana. But Lakshmana shattered it in mid-air. In rage, Vibhishana struck five arrows into Indrajit’s chest—they danced like five crimson serpents upon his side. Now Indrajit, invoking Yama’s name, loosed a deathly shaft at his uncle. Lakshmana countered it with Kuberastra—their clash in mid-air like the songs of Krouncha birds, the sky lit with fire and thunder, smoke and flame.
Then Lakshmana loosed Varunastra, which met Roudrastra. Then Indrajit called upon Agneyastra, fire itself; Lakshmana answered with the brilliance of Suryastra. Fury seized Indrajit—he lost Asurastra, casting axes, tridents, swords and maces in a storm. But Lakshmana, calm and deadly, shattered it with Maheswarastra. The five elements stirred in subtle form and stood behind him. Sages, siddhas, gods, Gandharvas, Garuda, and serpents gathered unseen around him. Then Lakshmana drew forth the divine shaft gifted by Indra, victorious in ancient wars. Holding it high, he prayed: “O arrow of Indra! If Rama is virtuous, true in word and thought, if his courage is unmatched, strike down this conjurer of shadows!”
With reverence, he let it fly. Like fate in motion, it sped and severed Indrajit’s head, which fell upon the earth. The ground turned crimson where it landed. The vanaras and Vibhishana roared in joy, as gods did when Vruttrasura fell. Rishis and celestials cried “Victory!” Demons fled—some to the sea, some to caves, some to mountain caverns.
Indrajit’s guards raced to Lanka, mourning. He lay fallen, like a sun stripped of flame, like fire extinguished. All realms rejoiced. Even Indra rejoiced in spirit, though unseen. Flowers rained from heaven. The Simian hosts and Jambavan heaped praise upon Soumithri. The skies rang with shouts of triumph—Victory to Lakshmana! Glory to Rama! Glory to Sugreeva!
The scales of the cosmos began to right themselves. The wind turned cool and fragrant. The fire, relieved from bearing offerings to dark rites, burned pure. Waters gleamed again, free of pollution. With one demon’s fall, balance began to return. What then shall be the glory when all evil is undone?
