Then did the divine charioteer Matali, wise and radiant, draw near to Rama—the resplendent scion of the Ikshvaku line, the flame of righteousness—and spoke with earnest urgency: “O Rama, light of the solar race, why dost thou prolong this combat with a dark-minded fiend, whose soul is ignorant and vile, like that of a brute soldier untouched by wisdom? O torch of Dharma, bearer of celestial prowess, unleash the Brahmastra, the unfailing weapon born of divine will, and bring fulfilment to the longing of the three worlds. The demon’s allotted span on earth is extinguished, as proclaimed by the lords of the higher realm.”
Stirred in the depths of his soul by the timely counsel of the charioteer, Rama, steady of mind and firm in resolve, drew forth the Brahmastra—sacred construct of destruction—bequeathed by the sage Agastya. It gleamed with the fire of the sun and hissed with the wrath of a celestial serpent. In remote and sacred ages, did the great Creator Brahma, through deep austerity and contemplation, summon this arrow from the pure and eternal spirit of the cosmos, and give it unto Indra for the preservation of worlds, a gift sanctified with blessings to annihilate evil.
Its swiftness, precision, and resolute strike were forged by the subtleties of Vayu, Agni, Aditya, and the lords of Mount Meru. The body of the weapon was fire incarnate, suffused with the brilliance of all vital forces that uphold the world. When loosed, it would blaze with the radiance of the midday sun. Glowing with the fury of cosmic end-time, it devoured elephants and steeds, sundered mountain peaks, toppled fortresses, crumbled caverns, and fulfilled its dreadful purpose before returning in an instant to its master’s quiver.
It was diamond-hard, thunder-loud, and history bore witness to its havoc, cleaving legions in many a great war, invoking dread with mere presence. The Brahmastra was death’s own hand: a banquet to wolves, jackals, vultures, owls, and all flesh-feeding things, it became Yama’s own shadow. Yet to the pure and virtuous, it was a beacon of safety, a destroyer of fear. In the three worlds, it knew no peer. It soothed the spirits of Ikshvaku ancestors, struck down the infamy of foes, and restored sanctity to the heavens.
In great solemnity, Rama, his heart uplifted with sacred resolve, intoned Vedic chants to sanctify the astral shaft, placed it upon the bowstring with trembling earth beneath him, drew the mighty cord to his ear, and released it upon Ravana, the dark-souled king. Like Indra’s thunderbolt, it sped, struck the demon’s heart with flawless aim, and wrenched from him his spirit. The arrow, its duty complete, returned to Rama, while Ravana, stricken, let fall his weapons and his life, which fled into the five elements.
His vast frame, once adorned with crowns and gold, collapsed upon his chariot and tumbled to earth like Vritra smitten by Indra in battles of the first age. Beholding the death of their dread monarch, the demon host scattered like dry leaves in the wind, their ranks broken by terror. The simian warriors, drunk with triumph, pursued them with rocks and uprooted trees, roaring the names of Rama and Sugreeva with undying fervour. Celestial drums thundered from above, flowers rained from heavenly hands, and sweet fragrances swirled in the air. The sky was cleared, the sun shone in untroubled splendour, and the winds became gentle and pure. The righteous across the three worlds rejoiced at the fall of evil.
Rama, radiant as Indra amidst the gods, fulfilled his solemn vow to Sugreeva, to Angada, and to Vibhishana. The sages breathed relief, the guardians of the quarters were gladdened, for no more would demonic force hinder their rites. Earth lay in calm repose. Then did Sugreeva, Angada, Vibhishana, and the monkey chieftains bow with folded palms and reverence, offering their gratitude for an impossible task accomplished. They stood Rama, victorious, amongst his companions, a flame of dharma in flesh, glorious as a thunder-lord in storm.
But Vibhishana, brother to the fallen, looked upon the corpse of Ravana, his kin by blood, and was seized by sorrow. Tears burst forth as he cried, “O mighty one! Master of wisdom and valour, peerless among kings, thou now list upon the earth, robbed of splendour. Thy limbs, once guarded by golden shields, are sullied with dust, thy diadem cast to the ground. I warned thee, brother! Yet desire clouded thy discernment and dragged thee into realms of no return. Though we—Prahastha, Indrajit, Kumbhakarna, Athiratha, Atikaya, and I—disapproved, we too were swept in the tide of thy lust and ambition.
Thou wert the archer of legend, and now thy fall has tainted the name of heroism. Righteousness fled from thee, strength dissolved, and the tongue of praise is silenced. Thou wert the sun to the demon world, a nourisher of vitality, now fallen and vanished like the moon in shadow. Thy fall leaves naught but ashes of greatness. The demon tree is uprooted—courage its leaves, tapas its strength; valour its trunk, demons its roots—and it is torn asunder by the gale named Rama.
Like a tusked elephant of power, thou hadst brilliance as ivory, lineage as spine, wrath and pride as sinews, penance as the sturdy trunk—but lo! Rama, lion of kings, hath struck thee down. Like a blazing inferno of wrath and daring, thy flames of passion and power have been quenched by the cool cloud that is Rama. Like a wild bull, ears flicking with temptation, horns of demoness might, tail of malice and form of tyranny—thou wert brought low by the tiger named Rama.”
Then Rama, slayer of darkness, stepped toward the grieving Vibhishana and spoke words of eternal truth: “Grieve not. Thy brother did not fall like a coward, but with glory unmatched. He displayed courage worthy of praise, zeal unshaken even before death. Those who aspire to virtue and kingship must not lament over such noble fall. Ravana, who once quelled even Indra’s hosts, deserves no tears of shame. In war, either victory is won or one falls in glory. The valorous dead are not mourned—they are honoured. This is the law of the ancients. Cast aside thy sorrow. Embrace the next rite of dharma.”
Rama’s words, pure as sacred waters, soothed the tormented heart of Vibhishana. “Rama,” he replied, “not by gods, not by demons, giants, yakshas, nor lords of netherworlds were Ravana vanquished—but by then, on this ocean shore. He was no mere king of devils—he was magnanimous, noble of heart, giver of gifts, protector of subjects, godlike to allies and dread to enemies. A son of austerity, a master of the Vedas, he upheld Ahitagni rites and followed the ancient paths. Permit me, O Rama, to perform his last rites, fitting his soul and lineage.” Rama, moved by such nobility, declared, “Let it be done. The flames of enmity are extinguished in death. I have fulfilled my duty. Ravana is now as dear to me as thyself. Let the final rites guide him to celestial realms.
Thus, shall the glories of both armies stand immortal, shining as dharma’s eternal flame in the chronicles of time.”
