The fierce and impious Ravana, master of many dark arts, in his haste and fury unleashed a tempest of arrows, hoping to shroud the sky and unnerve Rama and the valiant Vanara host. From his diabolical arsenal, he summoned the Maya Astra, a blazing infernal weapon that hurled tridents, maces, and pestles from all quarters, its shrieking fire and storming light echoing like the breath of doom. But Rama, composed as the mountain amidst tempests, loosed the Gandharva Astra in a single stroke, dispelling the mayhem as sunrise dispels the mist.
Ravana, vexed and burning with wrath, released the Sourastra, a flaming disc, wheeling and blazing like the divine discus of Vishnu, flooding the quarters with its light, as if the sun and moon arose in unison. Yet Rama countered it in power and force, shattering it mid-course and casting Ravana into choler and chagrin. Again, he rained arrows upon Rama, yet not a step did Rama yield; in answer, the prince of the Raghu race veiled Ravana’s path in a ceaseless rain of shafts.
Then Lakshmana, steadfast and swift, brought down the proud banner and pole of Ravana’s chariot, striking it to earth. With another arrow, he severed the charioteer’s head from its trunk, and five more split Ravana’s bow at its middle. Vibhishana, rising with storm-like zeal, struck down the demon’s horses with his mace, mighty as a thunderbolt. Ravana leapt from the shattering chariot, face aflame, eyes set upon his brother with murderous ire. He launched the potent Shakti at Vibhishana, but Lakshmana, in valor unmatched, cleft it in midair into three, drawing thunderous cheer from the Vanara legions.
Enraged, Ravana selected yet another Shakti, unfailing and fire-fed, casting it at his brother like a star cast down by a wrathful god. Lakshmana met it with his arrows of immeasurable might and shattered its course. Foiled again, Ravana turned upon Lakshmana, declaring, “You have robbed me of Vibhishana, and thus you shall perish in his stead!” With unthinkable force, he flung another Shakti; before it could be stopped, it struck Lakshmana and brought him to earth. This sight pierced Rama’s heart with anguish. He rushed to his brother’s side, seeking to draw the weapon from his breast, yet Ravana’s unrelenting arrows stayed his hand.
With eyes like thunderclouds, Rama called to Sugriva, “Guard Lakshmana well and shield him with your life. Now is the hour to strike down this sinful Rakshasa! Long have I awaited this moment, as the pied cuckoo yearns for the first rains of spring. Hear me, O Vanaras! Soon shall the world witness the end of either Rama or Ravana — one shall fall ere the sun sets.”
He stood before his forces and cried, “I am robbed of kingdom, have wandered the forests of Dandaka, and borne the torment of Sita’s insult. All sorrows have scorched my soul. Now I shall cleanse them in Ravana’s blood. I slew Vali and crowned Sugriva, raised the Vanara army, and bridged the sea. But Ravana, venom-eyed and cursed by heaven, is a serpent, and I, the Garuda, fated to end him. Sit upon the mountains, O faithful Vanaras, and behold this fateful duel. Rishis, Gandharvas, and celestials shall bear witness as the world beholds Dharma’s triumph. Let this day be etched into the chronicles of the ages!”
So, saying, Rama lost his arrows, and Ravana answered with a storm of weapons. Their meeting mid-air struck sounds mightier than thunder, weapons clashed and shattered, raining down as if mountains crumbled. The tremors of their bows and the whir of arrows filled the quarters with dread. Rama’s terrible might began to suffocate Ravana’s host, who, defeated in spirit, vanished from the field — a trait he had shown before in his dark craft.
Rama turned to Sushena, his voice a shadow of despair: “Lakshmana’s valor lies heavy on the earth. With him falls my strength, my courage, my very soul. My bow slips, my heart falters, my tears betray my duty. I am as one walking in dream, my grief a cloud upon my senses. What is victory without Lakshmana? What kingdom shall I inherit when he lies broken? Why do I live when my brother lies fallen?”
He wept without cease. “How shall I face Sumitra? How endure the gaze of Kausalya and Kaikeyi? What shall I say to Bharata and Shatrughna when they ask, ‘Where is Lakshmana who went with you?’ Rather, let me die here and now. No misfortune is greater than outliving one’s younger brother. O Lakshmana, peerless in valor, why did you depart and leave me to wretched sorrow? Speak to me once. Open your eyes. When I lost hope in the wilderness, it was your voice that restored me — why now are you silent?”
Then Sushena, the wise physician, approached and said, “Rama, cast away this grief as you would cast aside a broken shaft. Lakshmana is not dead. His face glows, his breath stirs, his palms are rosy, and his eyes are bright with life. The dead do not wear such signs. His pulse speaks of hope. Do not despair — he shall rise again.”
He turned to Hanuman: “Fly swiftly, O son of the wind. Bring from the sacred mount the life-giving herbs — Vishalyakarani, Sanjeevakarani, and Sandhani. They alone may restore him.”
Hanuman flew with might, but on reaching the mount, the herbs were indistinguishable among the blooms. Resolving not to delay, he grew vast as a mountain, shook the hill gently, and lifted it whole. He soared through the heavens like a rain-laden monsoon cloud and laid it before the healer. Sushena gathered the precious herbs, crushed them, and applied their essence to Lakshmana.
Soon, the prince stirred, eyes opening like lotus petals at dawn. He rose and bowed to Rama, who embraced him, his joy boundless.
Lakshmana said, “O Rama, you are the pillar of Dharma. Why do you tremble like the common man? Your vow to vanquish Ravana is the breath of truth — fulfill it! The wicked shall not behold the dusk of this day. Do not let your resolve melt for my sake. Just as no elephant escapes the lion’s grip, so shall Ravana fall to you. O King, arise and reclaim your purpose — to rescue Sita and destroy evil. All heaven watches. The world waits. Let your vow blaze like fire and cleanse this darkened earth.”
