The fall of Kumbhakarna, a mountain among men, cast dread across the demon realm like thunder in a sleeping sky. That indomitable protector of Lanka, who once defied gods and ghosts alike, fell at last beneath the arrows of a mortal. Those who beheld the battlefield that bore his fall wandered henceforth like phantoms, robbed of breath and sense, unable to reckon that the bastion of their strength now lay vanquished.
The lords of the Rakshasa clans, trembling in dread, came to Ravana. With faltering voices and downcast eyes, they spoke:
“O King, the scourge of Yama, our mighty Kumbhakarna, whose hunger felled armies and whose wrath swallowed the sun, fought with unmatched fury. He restrained Rama as few could, yet succumbed to the tide of fate. Pierced by divine shafts, his limbs severed, his form dragged into the ocean’s depth, he vanished, leaving no trace.”
The mighty Ravana, who had mocked the skies and challenged the heavens, felt insensate at this news. The strength of his soul, once bound in the arms of his brother, now crumbled, for without Kumbhakarna, his strength seemed as mist beneath the sun. The young demons—Devanthaka, Naranthaka, Trisira, and the mighty Atikaya—plunged into silence and sorrow. The warrior cousins, Mahodara and Mahaparswa, shed tears unashamed and cried aloud:
“How has such a colossus fallen to the hands of a mere man? Rama, who lives by virtue, can he have undone what gods and demons failed to shake?”
Ravana, regaining breath and sense, rose in lament:
“O Lion of battles, brother unmatched, scourge of sages and serpents, who joined my wars against gods, demons, and the sky-bound kin of Kinneras—you subdued the world in stride. Now Yama has taken you from me before the grief born of mortals was cleansed. Upon your shoulders, I knew no fear; now, stripped of you, the cosmos weighs against me. How did Rama, whom even fate seemed to serve, bring down a being who withstood Indra’s thunderbolt? The hosts of heaven now rejoice at your fall. The apes who feared your tread now dare to enter Lanka, to breach palace and harem. What care have I for kingdom or Sita now? The world is dust without you. Only my shell walks this earth, for my life has departed with yours. I would follow you, brother—I would cast this body into the abyss that hides your remains.”
In the silence that followed, the memory of Vibhishana’s words stung like fire. “His counsel,” Ravana whispered, “once scorned, now rings with dreadful truth. I mocked the righteous, and am mocked by fate.” Not even at the loss of his son had Ravana thus wept—but the fall of Kumbhakarna pierced him deeper than joy ever touched.
Then Trisira, his voice resolute, stood before the grieving monarch:
“O King, it is true that your brother has fallen, yet such lament ill suits the master of three worlds. You are endowed with divine weapons—shield, bow, chariot—gifts of Brahma. You who have conquered giants and ghosts with ease, why wail like a broken soul? Wait but a moment—I shall strike down Rama as Indra felled Samabarasura, as Vishnu brought ruin upon Naraka. Trust, for he shall lie beneath my foot, and victory shall yet be ours.”
Ravana, stirred by this thunder of youth, felt new fire in his breast. His grief gave way to wrath and purpose. The sons of Lanka—the pride of his bloodline, boons in form and strength—gathered to his side: Devanthaka, Naranthaka, Trisira, and Atikaya, with their vast entourages. Warriors of shape-shifting might, they moved by sky and sea, trained in the craft of ancient rituals and schooled in the dark sciences by Maricha and Shukracharya. Their renown reached even to the halls of Brihaspati, who begrudgingly admired their command of divine energies.
These demons, clad in armors that gleamed like dawn, shone in Ravana’s court as if Indra himself were flanked by gods. Their eyes flamed with vengeance, and Ravana, pleased, adorned them with sacred threads of protection upon their wrists and necks, blessing them with victory. He assigned veteran warriors as guards, cousins of Kumbhakarna, to shield the youth as they entered the storm of war.
In immense forms, they bowed to Ravana, swore oaths to return only with triumph. Elder scholars anointed their bodies with rare pastes to guard against unseen wounds and unseen poisons, leaving no part of their readiness to chance.
Thus marched the scions of Lanka:
Mahodara rode a divine elephant, descendant of Airavata, resplendent with shield, crown, and bow, arrows unending—he shone like midday sun.
Trisira, son of Ravana, mounted a chariot drawn by four steeds stout and true, armed to the teeth. His visage flared like lightning amid rainclouds, crowned thrice over with golden crests like triple peaks of Mount Trikuta.
Atikaya, master of bow and mace, rode a five-horse chariot that thundered like a storm. His weapons were inexhaustible, his body vast, crowned in gems sanctified by his grandsire—he moved like Mount Meru wrapped in flame.
Naranthaka galloped upon a white steed of Uchhaishrava’s line, weapon gleaming like a meteor—he recalled Kumara, the war-God himself.
Devanthaka bore a ritual-bound mace, resembling Vishnu bearing Mandara in the churning of the seas.
Mahaparswa, mighty and luminous like Kubera, wielded a mace to shatter mountains.
Their march—chariots, horses, elephants, and foot soldiers behind, resembled planets arrayed for celestial war. Their silken robes flowed like autumn swans in the sky; their resolve: to kill or perish.
Yet all this glory, all this pride and craft, was but the blazing of a candle before the wind. For Ravana, in his deluded wrath and wounded pride, had sent the future of Lanka—the treasure of its youth—into the mouth of fate. The heirs of demons, mighty though they were, bore not only their cause, but unknowingly the punishment due their master.
And so the battle neared—between the virtue of Rama and the vainglory of Lanka, between a mortal with divine purpose and a host of giants whose warlike valour could not veil the shadow of their doom.
