In the dusky halls of Lanka’s golden palace, where silence now brooded heavier than war drums, the mighty but grieving Ravana sat upon his lion-throne, like a tempest caged within. His face, once radiant with defiance, now shadowed by sorrow—his heart burnt with the loss of Indrajit, his son, fallen amidst the clash of steel and spell. Though counselled wisely by Suparsva, the king, weary yet resolute, summoned his ministers and captains to his court.
There, with humbled voice but blazing eyes, he commanded, “Arm yourselves with chariots, cavalry, elephants, and swords. Surround Rama alone, break his body with arrows like clouds burst upon parched earth in season, but leave his breath to me—I shall end him with my hand before those who rejoiced in my son’s fall.”
Thus commanded, the legions of demons surged forth like night descending. Armed with tridents, pestles, bludgeons, axes, and bows, they fell upon the vanaras, who in return hurled trees and stones, their fury equal, their loyalty unshaken. The air thickened with the sound of battle, weapons clashed, limbs flew, and sky grew ashen with dust and cries. Missiles and stones flew in whirls like dry wood for Vajna’s sacred fire.
And then blood flowed—so freely that dust was drowned, and streams of gore replaced the rivers. Elephants stumbled like shattered mountains, horses swam like fish in the bloodied currents, and flags and chariot poles stood like ghostly trees amidst a drowning land. Vanaras, wounded but valiant, dragged down standards, shattered shields, and clawed and bit the demons with wrath divine. With nails and teeth, they laid waste to flesh and armor, tearing off ears, smashing faces, and breaking arms. Yet the colossal demons struck back with clubs and iron, fury against fury.
In despair, the simians cried to Rama, who entered the fray like the flame of the world’s end. None could bear his sight—his form shone with the brilliance of fire, each arrow a tongue of flame. He moved too swiftly for eye or soul to catch. His bow—an orb of whirling power—sang with the sound of conch and storm, its string alive with thunder. His arrows knew no mercy; they were his will in flight.
Chariots burst into fragments, shields cracked, bows snapped, weapons burnt in the air before they fell. No one saw Rama—only the ruin he left. His enemies, struck dumb by illusion, cried, “He is here! No—there! Rama is everywhere!” And in confusion, they struck their own, their minds deluded by Gandharvastra, their eyes deceived.
In this terrible moment, Rama became not a man, but an elemental power. His form was like a circling disc of fire, his limbs leaf-like in grace, his strength born of flame. Intellect shimmered in a corona of thought; his arrows moved as his soul decreed. In less than three hours, he crushed ten thousand chariots, felled eighteen thousand elephants, slew fourteen thousand horses with riders, and annihilated two hundred thousand cavalry with divine fire. Dead steeds, broken flags, charred bodies—the battlefield a wasteland. Those who survived fled to Lanka’s gates, their courage buried beneath ashes.
The ground looked like Rudra’s dance of destruction; the heavens rang with praise—“Victory to Rama!” sang gods, rishis, and gandharvas. Rama turned to his simian allies and said: “Only two in this world can do what you have seen—Rudra, and I.”
The universe rejoiced in Rama’s triumph, but Lanka plunged into deeper shadow. Ravana’s every strategy crumbled to dust—for the cosmos does not aid the unrighteous. Demons fled, weeping for sons, brothers, husbands—crying for life itself. The name, the mere thought of Rama, sent terror through their veins. All who fought him bore witness. In one quarter of Lanka, the demon widows gathered, mourning in agony.
They whispered, “It was the vile, misshapen Surpanakha who approached Rama—the radiant one, beauty’s embodiment, rival of Manmatha—driven by lust and greed. She, the foul soul, provoked the virtuous prince. Because of her, Khara, Dushana, Trishira—all fell in Dandakaranya. The world mocks us for her insolence
