The demon of ten heads and twenty arms, like a mighty sal tree battered by tempestuous winds, now trembled beneath the weight of insult and the storm of fury. The thunder of his pride fell to pieces, broken not by arms but by emotion more consuming than war. That fire of rage, born of wounded vanity, sapped him more than defeat itself.
The scholar within him had turned to stone; wisdom, once his companion, now fled, abandoning the one who chose the dark alleys of ill virtue, who clung to false faith in birth and death, and whose pride was nourished by flatterers and fools. His counsellors, echoes of his own delusion, spoke to him of victory, telling him his foe was but mortal and trained in arms, and urged him to retaliate.
His eyes flamed like torches in a storm, and he poured a lake of arrows from his bow, thick as monsoon rain, descending upon Rama and his warriors, suffocating them with pain and heat. Yet Rama, the son of Dasaratha, stood still, a mountain against the storm, unmoved under the iron downpour, receiving each shaft like the morning sun receives the dew, his silence more defiant than a thousand roars.
Each arrow of Ravana’s wrath turned into a fiery tongue that kissed Rama’s skin, drawing blood that bloomed upon him like the scarlet petals of the kimsuka tree, as if the forest itself had flowered in flame. But Rama, lord of poise, answered fury not with fury, but with power measured and strength contained.
The battle between these two devotees of war darkened the heavens like the fall of night, so thick the cloud of weapons that directions vanished into nothing. Rama, with noble intent, thought to shake Ravana’s spirit with a word that he might awaken the king from the drunkenness of pride and remind him of dharma, for one mad or intoxicated is not to be vanquished in their folly.
O Ravana! You, ungraced and bereft of noble principle, you who dared abduct a helpless woman from the forest of Janasthana, speak not of heroism. What valour lies in snatching a treasure unseen, in casting a shadow over another’s light?
The sin of lusting for a woman who is not yours, of claiming a prize you never earned, consumes virtue like fire devours the dry woods. Your greatness is a mask; your fame hollow, your title of hero a lie before heaven and earth. You scorned tradition, cast away shame, turned your back on righteousness, and marched with pride toward ruin, calling Yama with your own breath.
Though born of a noble line, son of Vishravasu, brother to Kubera, and king of golden Lanka, your deeds make mockery of your heritage. Pride and lust, the black stars you followed, now yield their harvest—face it without flinching. Foolish rakshasa!
You are but a thief. Had you faced me in Janasthana, truth to truth, you would have joined Khara in the dust. Dull-witted demon! It is fate that pushed you into my path, and now your time is at hand.
My arrows shall be beasts, feasting on the crowned head that once wore earrings, and the earth shall drink the pride from your veins. The eagles shall rejoice upon your flesh, drawing entrails from your broken frame. Seeing Ravana now come down from the summit of pride, Rama, eager to end his tyranny, rained a burning volley of arrows upon him. The Lord’s strength, like sacred light, unveiled itself fully, as a sign of victory.
Ravana, disturbed, began to tremble beneath the vanara rain of stones and cries. He faltered; no astra flew from his hand. Despair wrapped him like a shroud. The charioteer, wise and loyal, drove the steeds away from the battlefield, slowly, for fear of the king’s safety. The great chariot of thunder now rolled toward the edges, as the demon lord sat burning with pride and confusion.
But anger clouded reason. Ravana, staring with eyes red as dusk, spoke: O charioteer of low thought, do you see me as weak? A coward? An ordinary being? You shame me before the enemy with this retreat! Have you forgotten who I am? Did I command you to pull away? You stripped me of my glory and turned me into jest before the eyes of warriors.
Has the enemy bought your loyalty, that you dare dishonour your king? If memory of my kindness remains in you, if you recall the rewards I gave, return me now to the battlefield. Before my enemy slips away, I must rise once more. His fury fell upon the charioteer like lightning, but the charioteer, ever true, bowed and, with humility, sought permission to speak.
Granted the word by the shaken king, he said: O Lord, I am not afraid, nor a traitor. My thoughts are clean, my gratitude unbroken. I have not been touched by deception, nor do I forget the grace you showered on me. My devotion is unwavering. I am faultless and guided by honour. Like a river returning to its source, I must speak the reason. You have fought with a strength worthy of legends.
But at this moment, weariness has gripped you. The steeds too, scorched by battle and battered by storm, have lost their fire. Signs in the sky spell an ill omen. A charioteer must know more than horses and reins. He must read the land, the air, the spirit of his lord. He must weigh strength and weakness, shadow and height, and the breath of his enemy. His duty is not just to drive, but to preserve. It is no betrayal, O mighty king, to save your body when fatigue threatens your cause.
I brought you away for your sake, and for the code of war I am bound to. Now, you are renewed. Your eyes are clear. The horse is strong. Command me, and I shall return you to the battlefield. I shall not again act of my own will. Pleased by this loyal truth, Ravana blessed the charioteer with jewels and honour.
Then, with the fire rekindled in his breast, he gave the order: Drive me to Rama. The king of Lanka shall not return unless the enemy is no more. Thus moved the chariot, dreadful and divine, toward the bearer of righteousness. Evil borne upon wheels toward the flame of virtue.
