The war between virtue and wickedness had reached its awful zenith, and the heavens with all their host looked on in breathless expectancy, eager to behold the verdict of fate. A terror rose from the battlefield like smoke from sacrificial fire—black, blinding, and soaked in wrath. Demon legions, fierce and monstrous, gave rise to horrid offshoots of warfare, strange and cruel, while across the field the warriors of righteousness stood struck with awe at the ferocity, the might, the splendour of celestial arms and the skill with which each hero played his part in the divine theatre of war.
Blessings, boons, and weapons of unearthly glory lit the scene like stars cast down upon the earth. The clash of man and demon was not merely of flesh and steel—it gnawed into the minds, it shook the core of each host, as though each soul bore upon its shoulders the hope that their lord, and not the other, would prevail. So intense was the duel that the armies—vanaras and rakshasas alike—paused, as if struck dumb by destiny’s approach, watching in frozen stupor the mighty combat of Rama and Ravana.
The warriors at their sides, still as carvings, beheld their champions remembering omens, signs, dreams past, giving unto each symbol their own meaning, and fighting not just with arms, but with inner fire. Neither bore the weight of fear or doubt; Ravana, ever proud, believed death itself a worthy cost in the pursuit of conquest, while Rama, calm as dharma itself, knew victory was destined—if only he would pour his whole being into effort and focus.
In rage unmeasured, Ravana lost a shaft to strike down the banner atop Rama’s chariot—but Rama, swift as time itself, shattered it midair. In swift return, the son of Dasaratha fired a flaming missile, which tore through the demon-king’s prestigious flag, rending it to shreds. Ravana beheld his fallen standard, laughed sinfully, and loosed a furious storm of arrows. He aimed at Rama’s divine steeds, but his weapons, though wreathed in fire, were made feeble upon contact, falling harmless as withered lotus tendrils brushing stone.
Ashamed and enraged, Ravana hurled tridents, maces, swords, and axes, a rain of metal to drown the hope of gods. He sought to drown not Rama alone but the very spirit of the vanara host, darkening the sky with curtains of blazing arrows, so thick they choked the light and made day seem as dusk. It was as if a second sky of fire had unfurled, roaring over the battlefield. Yet Rama met fire with fire—astra against astra, skill against skill—and the weapons danced their deadly waltz, none missing mark, none gaining upper hand, as if the balance of fate was suspended upon a thread finer than wind.
When Ravana struck Rama’s steeds again, Rama replied in kind. Their warfare became mirrored, each emulating the other’s precision and fury. The demon-king’s rage, stoked by his fallen emblem, knew no boundary. The duel deepened into bitterness, and the entire cosmos leaned forward, suspended in the moment, the skies crowded with gods and sages watching from above.
The two chariots met eye to eye, wheel to wheel, axle to axle, in perfect alignment—adversaries complete. Their bows curved like serpents, their arrows hissed like fangs, and their movements flowed with such mastery that the advantage swung like a pendulum from one to the other. The rain of arrows from their bows made the sky resemble two monstrous clouds locked in thunderous combat.
Then Rama, with arrows forged in flame, smote the steeds of the demon’s chariot. Ravana, stung but not shaken, fired arrows again, each less potent than the wrath in his heart. He drew forth dark enchantments—sanctified missiles brimming with black art and roaring flame—but Rama withstood them like the Himalaya weathers the storm. When one arrow struck at Matali, Rama’s charioteer from the gods, and fell to dust, Rama’s wrath swelled like a rising tide, and he replied with a storm of arrows that drove back the ten-headed king. He let fly missiles of myriad forms and names, while Ravana hurled maces and pestles, causing the battle to climb to hair-splitting ferocity.
Such was their strength that oceans heaved in terror, mountains quaked, and deep-sea creatures—danavas and panis—stirred from the abyss. The forests trembled, the sun dimmed, and the winds lost their breath. Sages, gods, siddhas, and kinnaras fell into sorrow. The rishis cried from their seats in the sky, “Let not the worlds be ruined; may the meek be saved; let righteousness triumph! May Rama conquer, and may Ravana, the wicked soul, be erased from memory!”
The divine and fae looked on and whispered that no battle of gods or mortals had ever equaled this—Rama and Ravana were sky and ocean clashing, incomparable in any measure. Rama, in a pause of deep thought, took up a great bow, long and sinuous like a serpent woken from slumber. He fixed upon it an arrow burning with holy fire, and let it fly with silence and precision.
It sang through the air and struck Ravana’s head, cutting it clean from the trunk—its crown and earrings blazed as they fell like fallen stars. Yet to Rama’s astonishment, a new head rose in place of the severed one. Again, he cut it down. Another emerged. Again and again, Rama severed ten, twenty, a hundred heads—and still the demon stood, intact and laughing.
The son of Kausalya stood baffled, his mind measuring every arrow, every memory—those which had slain Maricha, Khara, Dushana in Janasthana, Kabandha in Krauncha Forest, Viradha in Dandakaranya, and those that calmed the mighty ocean itself—and yet now, against Ravana, they proved vain. Why? Still, he did not falter. Alert and fierce, Rama pierced Ravana’s chest, and the war raged anew with ferocity untold. The earth, sky, and water became one battleground. Their leaps, their flights, their charges, all driven by one aim—victory.
For seven days and nights the duel endured, sunless and moonless, the heavens watching without breath. Rama and Ravana fought without pause, no food, no sleep, no falter of the hand. At last, amid the thunder of arms, Matali, the divine charioteer, leaned toward Rama and spoke: “O Scion of Raghu, act now with a clear mind. Devise the final strike. For the script of fate is ready to be writ upon the sky. Nature waits to restore balance. The time has come.”
And Rama, hearing the voice of wisdom, turned his gaze to the rising horizon, where destiny stirred, where justice prepared her scales.
