Though the mighty Makaraksha stood like a thundercloud arisen in wrath, with gestures fierce and form colossal, the champions of the simian race, emboldened by past glories under the gracious eye of Rama, took heart. Steeled by virtue and resolved in righteousness, they arrayed themselves in fearless formation, unmoved by the terror of the demon host or the dreadful force they bore. The clash that followed between vanara and demon rose in fury and thunder, like that ancient war where Devas met Asuras.
Weapons rained down like hail—fiery missiles from demons, and stones and trees hurled by vanaras—each side dealing and enduring grievous harm. But the fiends of night, cunning and cruel, brought forth strange machines of war and wicked enchantments—tridents, arrows, pestles, swords, sickles, axes, and more—causing great unrest among the monkey warriors. Makaraksha, steeped in black art, showered darts of darkness and dread, not to slay, but to shake the resolve of the valiant, to poison their minds with fear not of death, but of evil’s triumph.
Yet the children of the forest, schooled in honest battle and austere valor, clung to their ancient ways, their hearts afire with refusal to let vice prevail. But Makaraksha, with his arts and terror, gained a momentary edge—some vanaras fled or took cover beneath broken trees and shattered earth. Then Rama, the scion of Raghu and guardian of dharma, let fly arrows that pierced the sorcery and shook the very soul of the demon commander. Enraged, Makaraksha roared—”Wait, Rama! Stand and face your fate! You slew my father Khara in Dandakaranya, you who preach righteousness but kill the loyal and devoted.
You call yourself virtuous? Ha! You are the slayer of the innocent. Had I been there in the forest, your tale would have ended, and my father would have lived. Now, by the grace of fate, you stand before me. I seek you like a lion starved. Go now to Yama’s abode and dwell among the slain! Speak no more—let the world behold your torment and my fury! Let our arrows converse and war decide.”
To this, Rama, calm and steadfast, smiled and replied—”O fool, your speech ill suits a warrior’s tongue. Victory lies not in words but in deeds. Yes, I slew your father Khara, and Trishira and Dushana and their horde—fourteen thousand demons in Dandak woods fell to my bow. And so shall you. The vultures await you, Makaraksha.” Then, with a wrath like a storm, the demon launched a rain of arrows, but Rama shattered them all mid-air, the fragments falling like withered leaves.
The clash deepened—bows twanged, strings hummed, the heavens echoed with the tumult. Celestials, sages, kinnaras, and serpents watched from the skies with awe and anxious hope. Arrow met arrow, force matched force, and the earth groaned beneath the weight of wrath.
Then Rama, aflame with righteous ire, shattered the demon’s bow, slew his charioteer and steeds with Naracha shafts, and cast him to the ground. Makaraksha rose, seizing a terrible trident, a gift of Rudra for penance endured. The weapon thundered and flashed, a storm born of fire and fury, as if it sought to swallow the world. Gods trembled and withdrew.
demon hurled it at Rama, but before it struck, Rama’s four arrows of fire shattered it in sky, the pieces falling like meteors, bringing relief to all. The demon, maddened, rushed to strike Rama with brute force, but Rama, swift and divine, loosed Agneyastra, which consumed Makaraksha—flesh and bone, pride and fury—reduced to ash.
The demon horde, struck with fear, fled to Ravana’s palace. The celestial worlds, long bound in dread, rejoiced. Ravana, hearing of the fall of Makaraksha, gnashed his teeth and summoned his mighty son Indrajit. “No rules,” he commanded. “No codes. Destroy Rama and Lakshmana. Use stealth, sorcery, or strength—what matters is their end. You have defeated Indra. Shall these mere men defy you?” Indrajit, circling his sire, performed dark rites, calling on nether forces. With blood and beasts, he fed the flames, which blazed golden, a sign of triumph to come. From that unholy rite rose a chariot, unseen by eyes, swift as thought, coursing land, water, and sky, drawn by phantoms. Adorned in gems, wreathed in aura, the war-chariot bore the might of demon sorcery. And upon it rose Indrajit, invisible to the world.
He found Rama and Lakshmana midst simian ranks and, like a two-headed serpent, uncoiled his wrath. Arrows rained like comets, and none could see their source. Rama and Lakshmana, though guarded by astras of divinity, could not behold their foe. Mist fell, conjured by black art, blinding the field. Sounds rose—bows, hooves, shrieks—but none could trace the demon. He rained arrows in that false night, terrorizing all. Rama, struck by instinct and dharma, let fly a storm of arrows. Some found flesh—Indrajit, pierced, bled in air. Rama and Lakshmana wove a curtain of arrows, tracking his movement, matching deception with strategy.
Yet vanaras fell to his tricks, and Lakshmana, burning with rage, begged to release the Brahmastra and end the demon clan. But Rama forbade him—”The wicked must fall, but not at the cost of dharma. Strike not the unarmed, the hiding, the fallen, the surrendered, or the drunken. Restraint defines us, not wrath. Let us find him, this dark conjurer, and slay him with valor. Use the serpent-weapons, seek his presence, and let the simians aid us. He must appear—the darkness shall not forever shield him.”
Thus Rama, guardian of code and conscience, restrained Lakshmana and turned to counsel with the vanaras. The battle now waited on fate’s breath, poised at the threshold of final justice—the triumph of virtue over vice.
