Fully armed and flaming with fury, Ravana, sovereign of rakshasas, leapt into the battlefield like a dark comet hurled from the abyss, roaring a challenge to the scion of Ikshvaku. Rama, still reeling under Lakshmana’s fervent counsel to fulfil the dread oath sworn beneath the forest boughs—to fell the demon king ere the sun dipped west—stood firm, set his bow, and with silence drawn taut as his bowstring, loosed a torrent of flaming arrows. Ravana, towering upon a chariot driven by the winds of sorcery, stormed forward; the monarch of demons rained arrows thick as monsoon hail upon Rama, who stood still as Dharma itself, rooted in the earth like a mountain. From chariot battled the lord of Lanka, from dust-laden earth stood the prince of men. Gods and sages looked on with mounting dread, voices hushed, foreheads furrowed, their hopes shaken by Rama’s disadvantage.
And in heaven, Indra, sovereign of the celestials, heard the anxious murmurings of divine assemblies, and rising in royal resolve, summoned his charioteer Matali. “Descend, O Matali,” said the Lord of Storms, “take my chariot, Vijaya, drawn by emerald steeds and sanctified in the fires of heaven. Go to Rama, and deliver this gift and my counsel. It is a favour done to gods and righteousness alike.” Bowing in reverence, Matali replied, “O King of Devas, I go. The chariot of heaven shall descend to earth.”
Swiftly did Matali descend to the battlefield, his golden wheels humming hymns as they turned. The chariot glittered with bells of gold, ropes strung with garlands of precious stones—diamond, ruby, sapphire, and emerald all aglow. Pearls clustered like moon-drops, and coral beamed like dawn. The green horses were clad in jewelled armour, and the banner of Indra, woven of divine silk and stitched with lines of diamond, fluttered above like a slice of heaven. The royal umbrella shimmered with the force of the firmament.
Standing before Rama, Matali spoke: “Indra, king of immortals, sends this chariot for your victory. Along with it, he grants his celestial bow, a shield blessed by the rites of heaven, arrows imbued with the energy of Aditya, and the mightiest of astras—the divine Shakti. O Rama of great valour, mount this chariot under my command and strike down the foes of righteousness, as Indra once did under mine.”
With reverence, Rama circumambulated the chariot and ascended, blazing like Indra in wrathful glory. And then rose the duel of titans—a hairsbreadth conflict, two worlds locked in war. Astra met astra mid-air, exploding like stars clashing. Ravana, his fury boiling, unleashed Rakshastra—a weapon of serpents, venomous and hissing, darting through the air like rivers of death. The skies quaked, the quarters groaned, and even time seemed to stagger. But Rama, seeing the doom, invoked Garudastra. Out flew divine eagles in countless flocks, devouring the serpents mid-flight, rendering the demon’s strike as nothing.
Then Ravana’s anger surged like a stormy sea, and he let fly a thousand arrows in a blink, one wave after another. He struck down Matali, struck the sacred flag of Indra, and aimed at the heavenly horses. Heaven held its breath. Gods, rishis, and siddhas watched with anguish. They whispered: “This is like Rahu devouring the moon—Rama is Chandra, and Ravana, the eclipse.”
Vibhishana and the vanaras stood tense and troubled. The heavens trembled with ill omens. Planet Budha cast a shadow of misfortune. Prajapati led Rohini, consort of Chandra, into a crooked path. The oceans roared, flinging up tides of dust. The sun dimmed. Meteors flamed like beheaded trunks near its face. The constellation of Ikshvaku, presided over by Indra and Agni, was captured by Mars.
Ravana, ten-headed, twenty-armed, loomed like Mount Mainaka risen in wrath. Dark art and delusion girded his limbs. With such cunning did he obscure Rama’s valour that the prince’s flame dimmed for a moment. But then Rama’s anger blazed anew—anger like Agni at world’s end, causing beasts to flee from mountain caves, causing the very sky to throb with thunderclouds. Evil signs multiplied. The earth groaned—the hearts of watchers filled with dread.
Even Ravana felt a tremor of doubt, a shadow crossing his confidence. He turned now to a terrible weapon—a trident born of sorcery, its tip spewing fire and venom, a weapon feared even by Yama. Lifting it with both hands, Ravana roared. The heavens cracked with his voice, the seas tossed their waves, the worlds shrank back in awe. “Rama!” he thundered. “With this, I shall end you and your brother both! This trident will make you a name among the dead!” And he hurled it—a streak of fire, a comet of ruin, whistling through the sky toward Rama.
Rama, astonished by its might, parried with celestial weapons, but the trident swallowed them mid-flight. Rama then seized the Shakti given by Indra, raised it high, and cast it forth. It flew like lightning wreathed in bells of doom, and struck the trident with thunderous force. The demon’s weapon shattered—iron to dust.
Without pause, Rama struck down Ravana’s noble horses, causing his chariot to stagger. Then he launched a shaft deep into Ravana’s chest, another to his brow. Blood poured like molten crimson. The demon swayed, his form like a palash tree crimson amidst fruit-laden groves.
But Ravana’s rage rose like wildfire scorched by the wind. Insulted and scorched, his pride wounded, his dark powers laid bare, he stood trembling with vengeance, the last fury of night before dawn. He burned with the wrath of a dying star, contemplating the endgame of his might and the fate that now pressed down upon his many heads.
