The murmurs stir in the shadowed hollows of Lanka. “’Tis the demoness, Surpanakha,” the whispers say, “She who sowed the seed of ruin.” By her goading, Ravana stirred enmity with Rama—and thus summoned the destruction of his house. The valour of Rama is sung in many tongues; yet our king, unprovoked, dared awaken his wrath.
In every dwelling, mourning is heard. One cries for her son, another weeps for her husband, a third wails for her son-in-law. Grief thickens the air. Lanka, once resplendent, lies veiled in sorrow. One ancient crone, eyes hollow with years, speaks with a voice like dry wind: “Long ago, Ravana won boons from gods, from demons, from the celestial hosts—but from man he gained nothing. And now comes Rama, the mortal, to fill that gap. When the demon race defied the order of worlds, the gods went to Brahma. He declared, ‘The demons shall perish by one born of woman, upon the earth.’ That woman is Sita—doom in beauty’s guise, destruction incarnate.”
“There is none to save us,” a voice murmurs. “None, unless Vibhishana, who fled to Rama for righteousness’ sake, can preserve his soul—and perhaps deliver ours.”
But Ravana, deaf to omen and to counsel, summoned his ministers. He sighed deeply, wrath clutching his breast like fire. His eyes flamed, his teeth ground together, and his breath was like furnace wind. All who stood near trembled.
He roared—Mahaparsva, Virupaksha—his command rang like thunder: rally the armies.
The generals bowed low and departed swiftly. Orders passed from lip to lip. The demon warriors—beasts in form, dread in bearing—armed themselves for war. Anciently, they encircled the king, then stood still, hands folded.
Then Ravana laughed—a mirth so terrible it chilled the marrow. “Let my arrows drive Rama and Lakshmana to the halls of Yama! Upon the battlefield, I shall blaze like the sun at the world’s end! Khara, Kumbhakarna, Prahastha, Indrajit—your deaths shall be avenged!
Let my shafts darken the sky, drown the moon, and smother the sun! Let them fall upon the monkey horde like thunder from the mountain peak! Their red faces, bright as lotuses in still water, I shall trample as the elephant shatters the lily pond!
One arrow for a hundred apes! Let the earth drink their blood, let the vultures, jackals, and wolves feast like kings! Bring me my chariot—my bow—my wrath!”
Mahaparsva hastened. Messengers sped through Lanka, summoning the whole host. The demon warriors poured forth—bearing swords, maces, spears, iron bludgeons, and roaring like tempest winds.
Meanwhile, among the vanaras, a murmur rose: “The thief of Sita comes—the slayer of sages—the scourge of dharma!”
Ravana entered the field beneath his regal canopy. The earth groaned. The hills echoed. The vanaras, struck with terror, scattered as leaves before the storm.
There he stood—Ravana, proud, vast, dreadful to behold. Beside him rose Mahaparsva, Mahodara, and Virupaksha, all mounted upon war-chariots drawn by steeds as black as midnight. The cries of the demon host rent the heavens. Ravana drew his bow.
At once, the sky dimmed. A vulture alighted upon his banner. Blood drizzled from the clouds. His horses stumbled. His left eye throbbed. His arm twitched. His voice wavered. Foxes howled. Crows shrieked. Dark omens unfurled like banners across the firmament.
Yet he heeded them not. Ravana would meet his fate upon the tide of war.
The drums beat. Conches blared. The mountains shook. The clash began—monkey and demon. Ravana lost his arrows—they fell like meteors. Death followed. Heads rolled. Eyes burst. Flesh tore. Mercy was a forgotten word.
Where he moved, ruin moved with him. The simians fell as grain beneath the scythe. His arrows flew like fire across a summer-dry forest. Even the brave shrieked like beasts in flame.
He surged forward like the wind through storm clouds.
Sugreeva beheld the vanaras falter. He turned to Sushena, calm in the storm. “Hold the line,” he said. “I shall break the tide.”
He called the champions. With fury he rallied them. They took stones and trees for arms. They flung them upon the demons like a tempest upon the jungle. Trees shattered. Bones cracked. War was a forest in a storm.
Then came Virupaksha, high on a war-elephant. His arrows struck like poisoned fangs. Sugreeva reeled. But wrath rose like a flame in the monkey king. He seized a great tree, swung it, and smote the elephant’s brow. The beast collapsed. Virupaksha leapt free, sword in hand, gleaming.
He charged. Sugreeva flung a stone—it missed. The demon struck. Blood flowed. Sugreeva staggered, but rose like the mountain resisting thunder.
Then, with a fist like Indra’s thunderbolt, Sugreeva struck his foe upon the chest. Virupaksha swayed, then swung again, breaking the vanara’s shield. They closed—blow for blow, cry for cry. Then Sugreeva, finding his moment, raised both hands and brought them crashing down upon the demon’s crown.
Virupaksha fell. Blood poured like river water. His eyes bulged. His limbs thrashed. His spirit fled.
The vanaras shouted. The demons howled. The sky was filled with the storm of their cries. Triumph and mourning clashed like waves. The bridge of war groaned under the weight of fate.
Thus, monkey and demon fought—like the tides of Ganga, meeting and breaking. Here, they mourned their champion. There, they hailed their king. In one moment, two truths stood: glory and despair—each heart split by the storm it bore.
