In leaps and bounds surged the battle, the cause of falsehood clashing with the striving of balance—a fierce contest riddled with anxious gasps, sudden turns, and tension gripping both ends. In the halls of the demon world, joy rang loud for a victory not yet real; while the simian cause, though battered, stood firm in quiet strength, holding the demons under the shadow of their pride.
Kumbha, the demon prince, lay slain by Sugreeva’s might. This fall drove Nikumbha, his kin, into madness. With fire in his gaze and wrath coursing through his sinews, he fixed his glare upon Sugreeva. In his grasp rose a mighty double-bladed bludgeon—sanctified in divine rite, smeared with sandal paste, Kumkum, turmeric, adorned with sacred marks—signs of fivefold elemental grant. Its handle shimmered with rubies, diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires, dazzling like the wand of Yama himself. This was no mere weapon—it was the famed demon-ring of safeguard, terrible and unassailable.
Roaring aloud with a thunderous bellow that rolled across seas, shook mountains, rattled forests, and echoed through caverns, Nikumbha stood—a terrible sight. His arms bore a sacred pendant, his wrists a shield of sinew, ears weighed with massive earrings, and around his neck hung a necklace gifted by the stars themselves. Golden ornaments clung to him like sunbeams caught in storm clouds, flashing like thunderclouds with rainbow fire.
So mighty was his weapon that the very airways—the seven paths of wind led by the Maruts—trembled. Its motion through sky, a flaming arc, terrified the enemy lines, gleaming like smokeless fire, divine and dreadful. Nikumbha, fierce in mien, spun his bludgeon as though circling the very realms of Kubera, Gandharvas, stars, moon, and planets beyond—his form a wave of leaping flame, impossible to withstand, the fire of dissolution incarnate.
Even demons and vanaras quaked before him.
Then, with force divine, he hurled the mighty bludgeon at Hanuman’s chest. But against that immortal form, it shattered—splintered to earth like meteors fallen from a cursed sky. Hanuman staggered, mountain-like in tremble, then rose, gathering his breath, striking with his thunder-fist against the demon’s chest. Shield broken, blood burst forth from Nikumbha, as though lightning slashed a rain-laden cloud. Dazed and shaken, he reeled from the strike, yet in a blink, recovered and seized Hanuman aloft—a feat that sent cheers through demon ranks.
But Hanuman, never one to falter, summoned his wit and struck again with steel sinews, breaking free. With swift might he brought the demon down, pressing him to earth beneath his foot, enraging him beyond reason. Soaring high, Hanuman crashed down again like a divine thunderbolt, grasped Nikumbha’s head and, with a twist born of godly power, tore it from the trunk. The cries that escaped shook the heavens and tore through the demon lines. Nikumbha breathed his last.
Panic gripped the demon hordes. They surged at Rama and Lakshmana with wild abandon, but were struck down one by one. The death of Nikumbha sent joy through the vanaras, and the heavens and earth trembled in celebration. But in the demon realm, it felt as though the sky itself had collapsed, and the earth shrank into barren silence.
Now leaderless and lost, the demons cursed the son of Vayu and fled, seeking refuge in the fortress of Ravana. The demon king, upon hearing of Kumbha and Nikumbha’s deaths, burned with grief, rage, and wounded pride. His heart thundered with wrath, and he called forth Makaraksha, son of Khara—a warrior fierce and proud.
“O son,” said Ravana, “go forth with our host. Crush Rama, Lakshmana, and the simian legions. Let vengeance rain down in my sons’ name.” The prideful Makaraksha bowed with folded hands. “It shall be done, my lord,” he answered, circling Ravana in respect.
To the chief of the army, he cried, “Prepare my chariot!” Swift was the response. The chariot came adorned with arms, flanked by soldiers. Makaraksha walked around it, invoking the blessings of the dark heavens. To his forces he spoke, “Fight not for gain, but for victory alone. Should death come, embrace it without regret—such is the path of glory.” His words pierced the demon hearts with steel resolve. Fear discarded, they vowed to tear through the vanara ranks without mercy.
He declared, “By my arrows, shall Rama, Lakshmana, Sugreeva, and all their champions fall. Like a forest fire devouring dry wood, I shall burn their hopes to ash.”
The demon host, cruel and colossal, shape-shifting and war-ready, took an oath: not to rest till all foes were laid low.
The sky trembled with war-cries. Trumpets, conches, drums, and horns roared in harmony with ocean waves and mountain winds, while the demon warriors howled like thunder.
But omens darkened the dawn. The seasoned charioteer dropped his whip; the steeds faltered and wept. The air grew heavy with dust, dry leaves swirling like a funeral shroud. The world wore a veil of dread.
Unmoved by signs, Makaraksha drove on toward Rama and Lakshmana, fierce and eager. His form, part-elephant, part-buffalo, bore countless battle scars from sword, mace, trident, and arrow—a living testament to war’s fury.
Within the demon ranks, chaos reigned with pride. Soldiers clamoured for the first strike, intoxicated by pomp and blind to fate.
But the battle between virtue and pride, between dharma and arrogance, is never just sword against sword. It is a war where nature waits—not to choose sides, but to restore its balance when all else has faltered.
