In that dreadful hour of war, the son of Sumithra, struck down by Ravana’s might, lay still and senseless upon the blood-stained field. Vain were his own efforts to rise, yet swifter still came Hanuman, who bore him with gentle might and unfailing care to the camp where Rama held his vigil. For Sumithri, whose soul is none but the coiled Adisesha that upholds the weight of worlds, is ever tender to friends, but firm as the nether rock to foes; thus Ravana, though mighty, could neither lift nor bind him from the ground.
Now Ravana, by his boon, rose again, grasping his bow with demoniac zeal, and unleashed torment upon the simian legions. But Lakshmana, whispering his plea to Vishnu in the silence between breaths, was at once restored. His divine lustre returned, and the cruel arrows fell from his flesh like dry straws caught in the breath of wind, leaving no wound behind. The sorrowful cries of fallen vanaras reached Rama’s ears, and his heart, fierce yet noble, stirred with wrath and compassion. Swiftly he advanced, resolved not to slay the misled warriors of the field, but to confront the very root of evil—the demon king himself. His mind was clear: strike the shepherd, and the scattered flock shall return to sense.
Hanuman, ever faithful, came to Rama, and with folded hands beseeched, “Mount upon my back, O Lord, as once did Vishnu upon Garuda, and let us chase the tyrant to the ends of the world.” Moved by this noble counsel, Rama, swift as thought, climbed upon Hanuman’s shoulder, who, with thunderous pace, bore him toward the chariot of the foe. Thus did it seem as though Vishnu himself descended to challenge the pride of Bali.
Standing now before Ravana, Rama raised his bow, and its twang rang through the ranks like a stormy sky’s cry, chilling the hearts of demons. His voice, like thunder upon the peaks, called out, “Ravana! Halt and face me. After staining thy hands with evil and mocking righteousness, where dost thou think to flee? Thou who brought ruin upon the house of Ikshvaku—can the gods themselves shield thee now? Seek thou refuge in Indra, Yama, Brahma, Rudra, Surya, or the guardians of the quarters—they shall not save thee from my wrath. You hurled the Shakti upon Lakshmana and thought him vanquished. But he rises now, renewed in spirit and strength, ready to deliver thee and thy cursed kin to the doors of death.
“Didst thou forget the slaughter of Janasthana, where fourteen thousand of thy fierce warriors perished beneath my arrows? I boast not; I but remind thee of thy folly. Now hear and tremble.”
This remembrance pierced Ravana’s pride, and in fury, he lost a rain of arrows upon Hanuman, yet each bolt only enkindled his fire and drove him onward with greater strength. Rama, discerning the demon’s malice, advanced. With precise might he struck—first the banner, then the pole, then the chariot itself, and steeds and charioteer alike felt shattered. Then Rama let loose a divine missile that smote the vast chest of Ravana. Though not even Indra’s thunderbolt could bruise him, this stroke shook the king as a mountain quiver in an earthquake. His limbs failed him; his arrows dropped; his glory dimmed.
Seizing the moment, Rama shattered Ravana’s crown, radiant like dawn, and cast it to dust. There stood the demon king, bereft of splendor, like a serpent hissing without fangs, like the sun swallowed by night, bereaved of aura and strength. He stood motionless in shame, struggling to swallow the bitter wine of defeat.
Then Rama, majestic and calm, approached and declared, “O wretched monarch of demons, thy sins have borne fruit. The blood of noble souls stains thy hands. Thy limbs falter, thy strength is spent. But the dharma of war forbids slaying the weakened, the unarmed, the dismounted. Go, Ravana. Return to thine abode. Rest, restore thy pride, rally thy force, and come again. Then, and only then, shalt thou witness the full blaze of my prowess. I spare thee now, not for thy sake, but to uphold the code by which warriors live and perish.”
Ravana, his arrogance shattered, voice broken, pride in tatters, with chariot crushed, steeds fallen, crown torn, and shield sundered, could scarce believe the depths to which fate had cast him. Thus, humbled and weary, he withdrew to Lanka’s halls.
After his departure, Rama, ever merciful, commanded his healers to tend the wounded vanaras, drawing arrows from their flesh and restoring life where it flickered low. The defeat and disgrace of the lord of demons sent waves of joy among the gods and sages. Celestials, elements, guardians, Gandharvas, serpents, and Kinneras praised Rama’s righteousness and resolve. For in that hour, they beheld not just the warrior, but the embodiment of justice—the deliverer of earth, who would not slay for pride, but would punish the root of evil with noble restraint.
Thus approached the highest phase of their mighty encounter, where power met principle, and wrath was tempered by the majesty of virtue.
