The battle between Lakshmana and Indrajit rose like a clash of titans, even as two mighty tuskers, fierce and unrelenting, with murder in their hearts, trample the earth underfoot in their bid to destroy the other. At a little distance stood Vibhishana, valiant prince and wise of heart, the vigilant guardian of dharma, bow in hand, quiver filled, gaze steady as the northern star.
Like the thunderclap against dark clouds, he struck his palm upon his arrow, sending fear through the demon ranks and restraining their unruly advance. His watchful eyes moved with every step Lakshmana took, ready to leap into fray should fortune falter. The battlefield blazed with arrow-fire, bolts of flame that tore through demon flesh as Indra’s Vajra would shatter mountains.
Vibhishana’s guards too, roared into the tide, severing demons as wolves would lambs, and Vibhishana himself shone amidst his warriors like a noble elephant among playful calves. Perceiving the moment ripe, he lifted his voice to the vanaras and cried, “Strike now, for if this one sorcerer falls, it is as though Ravana himself were slain!
He is the last pillar of the demon king’s hope, the final spark in his faltering flame. Delay no longer—strike, and Ravana’s might shall crumble to dust.” To awaken their spirits, he invoked memory: “Recall Prahastha, master of warfare and tactics; Nikumbha the fearless; Kumbhakarna the dread and Kumbha his kin; Dhumraksha, Jambumali, Mahamali—swifter than the wind, Asaniprabha, Supthaghna, Yajnakopa, Vajradamshtra, Vikata, Tapana, Manda, Praghasa, Praghana, Prajangha, invincible Jhanga, fire-willed Agniketu, valorous Rasmiketu, Vidyutnigha, Dwijihva, Surya-Shatru, Akampana, Suparswa, Chakramali, Kampana—all slain in the great slaughter. Devanthaka and Naranthaka, too, mighty and monstrous, lie broken in the dust.
You, O vanaras, have crossed the boundless ocean—shall you now stumble before a puddle no wider than a cow’s hoof? Rise, for the race of rakshasas is nearly ended!” Yet Vibhishana, torn by blood and dharma, said with sorrow, “Being his father’s brother, it is not for me to slay this son. Though the wish rises, my eyes are clouded with tears. This burden rests with Lakshmana, the noble-souled, whose wrath is dharmic and hand pure.”
Then he called again, “O vanaras, strike down every shade and shadow that guards this conjurer of illusions!” The simian legions, thus stirred, waved their tails like banners of war, roaring like peacocks at thunderclouds. Around the demon forces gathered Jambavantha and his companions, armed not only with stone and tree, but with claw, fang, and indomitable fury. They bit, tore, and clawed, while demons swung swords, tridents, bludgeons, pestles in a furious rage around Jambavantha, vexing him with relentless force.
The clash resounded like the age-old Deva-Asura war; cries of triumph, groans of pain, roars of rage, and thunder filled the air, echoing across land and sea, shaking forests and mountains alike. Hanuman, the storm-breathing hero, placed Lakshmana upon the ground and seized a boulder vast as a hilltop, casting it down to crush a legion of rakshasas.
Meanwhile, Indrajit, master of spells and deceit, turned his strength toward Vibhishana and then to Lakshmana. The two warriors rained arrows upon each other like a monsoon deluge, and none could behold their hands or weapons for the sheer speed of motion. Each draw and release was swifter than thought, their silhouettes vanishing behind curtains of flying shafts. Arrows darkened the sky like nightfall at midday. Lakshmana would gain the edge—then Indrajit would wrest it back. So closely matched were they that even the wise could not foretell which warrior would prevail.
Their arrows locked mid-air like stars in eclipse, and the battlefield grew dim as dusk, driving carrion beasts toward the stench of blood. The ground was heaped with corpses, the air still, the fire subdued, and sages in hidden groves prayed, “Let righteousness not fall today.”
Then Lakshmana loosed four arrows of thunder and felled Indrajit’s steeds. A fifth arrow, fierce and sanctified, flashed like the sun and severed the charioteer’s head. Indrajit, undeterred, seized the reins himself, guiding his chariot even as he showered darts. His skill astonished all who beheld him. Yet Lakshmana, waiting not for marvels, struck him again—before the demon’s arrow could take flight, his horses fell once more, and his bow was shattered. Panic’s edge touched Indrajit’s heart; his courage wavered.
The vanaras cried aloud, “Victory to Lakshmana!” Then Pramadhi, Rabhasa, Sarabha, and Gandhamadana, like mountains in motion, fell upon the enemy’s steeds and crushed the chariot to splinters. They stood beside Lakshmana, poised for the final reckoning. But Indrajit, conjurer supreme, rose again with a new bow and hurled a relentless torrent of arrows. Lakshmana, his spirit unwavering, met him arrow for arrow, their battle endless as the turning heavens.
One moment the tide would turn—only to flow again. For all who watched, the battle was a perfect balance: strength for strength, skill for skill, mantra for mantra, and blessing for blessing. Yet while one fought for virtue, the other fought for destruction. One stood for protection, the other for ruin. The hearts of gods and sages, mortals and beasts, yearned for dharma to triumph, and the stars themselves seemed to pause, willing the just cause to prevail. In that moment, carved in flame and resolve, a bright and noble page began to write itself into the annals of eternal story.
