Kumbhakarna, towering like a blackened hill of wrath, rose from slumber with thunder in his voice, brilliance in speech, and adaptability commendable to the eyes of Ravana. Seeing his brother so adorned in might and resolute, Ravana rejoiced in silent confidence, believing now the war would bend to his favour, the simian forces swept away like leaves before a storm, and Rama with Lakshmana would breathe their last beneath the colossal hands of the demon born of boon and curse.
Yet in the grand court of demons, aged Mahodara, grey with counsel and heavy with years, rose and with heavy words chided the awakened titan. O mighty Kumbhakarna, said he, though born of noble strain, thy sight is narrowed to that of commoners, for pride guides thy heart and not wisdom. Thou knowest not what is right nor what is fit. The king, thy brother, well-versed in the sacred laws, sees the moving of time, the weight of action, and the hidden pulse of fate.
Thou speakest like a babe intoxicated with power. Dharma, Artha, and Kama—thou rendest them apart as if they dwell not in union. The workings of karma defy the logic of man; for oft a righteous deed ends in woe, and wrong in fleeting gain. Joy and grief, result and cause, do not bow to mortal design.
Desire is not always the root of grief, nor virtue the sure path to bliss. The king acted as per his discernment, and we approved. Now we face consequences not in deed, but in time’s reckoning. What use is your lone fury against a foe who laid waste to Janasthana’s legion of fourteen thousand demons? Rama, whose name silences giants, is a wrathful lion and a serpent of flame. His brilliance defies gods and death itself, and when angered, he becomes a torrent unbound. Will you, alone, brave such a blaze and hope to live?
Nay, it is folly, and your boast mocks prudence. Among those present, Mahodara, with a cunning heart and trembling voice, turned to Ravana with a plan most curious and lowly. He urged: O king, why let Sita choose? Is she not captive to your will? Why not bend her through deceit? Proclaim to the world that Kumbhakarna and the heroes of the court march to slay Rama.
If the battle ends in triumph, then no deception is needed. But if they fall, then let us return drenched in our own blood, declare ourselves Rama and Lakshmana slain, and receive royal honour. Let an announcer trumpet the death of your foes, reward the army with gold and joy, and let this tale fall upon Sita’s ears. In despair, thinking her saviour dead, she will fall to your will.
Comfort and rule may then sway her heart, for luxury known once is hard to abandon. This is victory without war, glory without loss. But these words, like poison to the mighty, stirred wrath in Kumbhakarna’s soul. He raged at Mahodara, threatened his life for cowardly plots, and swore to vanquish Rama and Lakshmana, not with guile but in honourable battle.
The mighty do not thunder like empty clouds, said he. I shall show by deed, not word, and drown your cowardice in my victory. O Mahodara, your words are the broken mutterings of frightened sages, fit only for weak kings who dwell in shadows. You tremble before the sun of Ayodhya, and the court is filled with flatterers masked as friends.
Now shall I march and put to rest this crooked wisdom. Yet Ravana, smiling as if reborn in strength, soothed the fire. My brother, he said, Mahodara speaks from fear, not insight. There is none equal to you in might and loyalty. This is our moment. Go now as Yama with trident, wear the thread of fate, and crush the foe.
The vanaras shall scatter at thy step, and the hearts of princes shall shiver. Encouraged by such words, the awakened giant took his weapon—a trident forged in iron and flame, bright as Indra’s vajra, garlanded with flowers, aglow like sacred fire.
Ravana blessed him with talismans bound by Vedic hymns, adorned his limbs with gold, gems, and wheels of light upon his ears, until he shone like the mountain king wreathed in storm. He bowed with reverence and departed, leading an army vast as the sea. Chariots, horses, elephants, and Rakshasas formed a thunderous wave of war. The sky quaked with drums and conches, the earth sang beneath their march. Umbrellas of royalty shaded his path, and flowers rained from the sky.
His pride burned fierce, thirsting for blood, and the Rakshasas followed like thunderclouds on legs, bearing pestles, maces, scimitars, swords, tridents, and blades crowned with demon heads. Kumbhakarna grew in might, a mountain moving towards doom. The vanaras, trembling at the sight of him, saw a night sky take form and walk among them.
He laughed, a sound that tore the heavens, and cried aloud—O vanaras, your dwellers of gardens, I seek not enmity with you, but the cause of your ruin, Rama. Let me tell him, and your fate is sealed. The demons roared in answer, louder than waves in dance. Earth and sea trembled alike.
But omens foul followed—the stars wept fire, clouds turned brown, foxes screamed flame, birds turned their flight, and an eagle sat upon his trident. His left limbs shook, a meteor fell blazing, the sun dimmed, and the wind grew foul. Yet Kumbhakarna, bound by fate, cared not. He entered the fray like Yama risen.
His eyes beheld the simian host like waves upon the sea, uncountable. His presence scattered the monkeys like gales tear clouds. He struck, and vanaras fell like trees in a tempest. He devoured some in jest, roaring in delight. This, the hour ordained, when the daityas must fall, and harmony rise anew.
