Akampana, the fierce and war-hardened demon, cornered amidst the clash of roars and valour, found himself hemmed by three lion-hearted vanaras—Kumuda, Neela, and Mainda—whose relentless pursuit drew fury from his soul. Burning with frustration, he turned to his charioteer and thundered: “These mighty monkey warriors, swift and bold, tear through our ranks and harass our soldiers at every turn. Take my chariot, and steer it into the midst of that howling simian herd, where the pride of the vanaras swells unchecked! See, there stand colossal forms—great apes wielding trees and stones as their arms—saluting each other in courage and speed, demoralizing our demon legions with their impetuous resolve!”
The charioteer obeyed, steering the war-chariot into the center of the vanara forces. From his seat, Akampana loosed volleys of arrows, raining death upon the startled vanaras. Some feel broken, others fled in terror, the air alive with cries of alarm. But the battle shifted, for Hanuman—son of Vayu—beheld the chaos. His arrival was like the rising of a flaming sun, and the warriors of the forest rallied around him, their spirits renewed. Their roars, like lions on the hunt, split the sky.
Akampana turned, beholding the towering form of Hanuman, a living mountain in motion. He launched a storm of arrows. Yet Hanuman, unheeding of the wounds, advanced like a tempest, his face aglow like dawn’s first light, his roar a conflagration sweeping the field. Realizing he bore no weapon, Hanuman tore a mountain from the earth, whirled it high, and hurled it with a cry of a thousand lions upon the demon. But Akampana pierced it with arrows, scattering stone and dust across the plain.
Unfazed, Hanuman seized an Arjuna tree and smote down demons, chariots, elephants, steeds, and footmen alike, his wrath uncontainable. The asura ranks dissolved, scattering like leaves before a gale, panic-stricken. Akampana, enraged, drew fourteen arrows, each charged with might. They pierced Hanuman’s vast body as if trees thrust into a flowering mountain. Yet the valiant vanara stood unmoved, blazing like fire without smoke, and with one swift strike of a mighty tree, crushed Akampana’s skull to dust. The demon fell, shattered, and his troops fled to Lanka, disheveled, gasping, wounded, drenched in sweat and fear.
Hanuman, venerated by his kin for the mighty feat, stood like Vishnu after slaying Madhu and Kaitabha of old. Celestial beings sang with joy at the demon’s fall, and Vibhishana greeted Hanuman with reverence, lauding his conquest over terror’s hand.
But in Ravana’s court, the news struck deep. The death of Akampana stirred fury in the demon king’s heart. “Why do we falter before these mortals?” he brooded. At once he rose, journeying amid forenoon’s light to inspect his legions, ministers beside him. Observing battle flags and symbolic poles denoting each unit’s strategy, he stood amidst warriors like an isle surrounded by a flood.
To Prahastha, his battle-hardened commander, he turned: “Your might is renowned. Now the enemy besieges our gates. Only I, Kumbhakarna, Indrajit, Nikumbha, and you are worthy to lead. Go forth. When the monkeys hear your name, they shall scatter like chaff. They are fickle, vain, soft-hearted. They cannot even see your form nor hear your voice, as elephants cannot endure the lion’s roar. They will desert Rama and Lakshmana, whom you may seize like ripe fruit. The war may yet turn against us, but if we do nothing, defeat is certain. Speak, wise one—what steps must we take?”
Prahastha, with the calm of a sage, answered like Shukracharya advising Bali: “O King, this counsel we have pondered before. Then too, my advice was plain—return Sita with honour, and spare Lanka. War is fated should you fail. You have graced me with riches and respect; how could I shrink from duty now? I care not for my wife, children, wealth, nor life. My solemn vow is to perform funeral rites amid the battlefield, with vanaras as straw for my sacrificial fire!”
Then, to the captains, he called: “Summon the legions! The monkey flesh drawn by my arrows shall feed the birds of carrion!” His words ignited the ranks. Soon, Lanka’s hosts assembled like armored elephants, ready for war. Rituals commenced—priests invoked dark rites, flames flickered in sacred pits, and garlands adorned warriors clad in armor, armed with tridents, bows, blades, and maces. They bowed to Ravana, then stood beside their general.
Colossal and fierce were the demons—Naranthaka, Kumbhahanu, Mahanada, Samunnatha—and many others, loyal to Prahastha. They circled Ravana, saluted, then marched to drumbeats, war-bugles, and conches sounding his rank. His golden chariot, drawn by six mighty steeds, shone like the sun and moon, its standard bearing the image of a dreadful serpent. Curtains of gem-studded gold fluttered in battle’s wind.
The chorus of drums and trumpets, mingled with the thunder of hooves and flags aloft, echoed across mountains and sea. The army surged eastward, a tide of doom. Prahastha, grim as Death in his hour, rode forth. Ill omens gathered—meteors struck, foxes howled, birds shrieked over his chariot. Clouds rained filth, and planets dimmed. His charioteer dropped the reins, eagles screamed from the south, and horses stumbled on smooth ground.
The vanaras, hearing of Prahastha’s coming, readied themselves. Armed with trees and boulders, they roared in fierce unison. The battlefield thundered with simian fury and demon rage, a cry that reached every realm. Prahastha, with turmoil in heart, surged toward Sugreeva like locusts drawn to fire, the demon ranks plunging into the blazing wrath of vanaras.
Thus began the clash of virtue and vice, of dharma and adharma, in the final reckoning for Lanka’s fate.
