Then rose Rama, embodiment of virtue and sovereign will, into a wrath dutiful and divine. His voice thundered like the end of time, shaking the heavens and trembling the earth:
“O Ocean! If you deny me passage, I shall render you extinct. With my celestial arrows shall I drain your waters, scour your depths, and annihilate every creature that breathes beneath your waves! Dust and ruin shall rise from your bosom; I shall rain destruction until your pride is no more. Let my monkey legions pass over while I unleash the fury of my vow!”
Though Ocean knew well the measure of Rama’s might, he lingered silent, provoking the prince to raise his weapon. Grasping his arrow, Rama invoked the power of Brahmastra, sanctifying it with a sacred rite. As he strung his bow and drew it to full arch, a thunder unlike any known split the vault of the skies. The earth shivered, the mountains echoed, the valleys reverberated, and all of creation seemed to fall into shadow. The directions were veiled, the lakes churned, and the stars, the sun, and the moon quivered in dread as though the cosmos teetered on the edge of collapse.
The skies, once radiant, grew dim; fireballs and meteors streaked across the heavens, clashing and burning. The seven winds—those sacred Maruts who carry light, breath, and soul—fell out of balance. Clouds collided and burst with tempestuous violence, their lightning striking the earth with deafening wrath. Creatures of land and forest wailed in terror; spirits, phantoms, beasts of strength—elephants, lions, tigers, and bison—fell to the ground in panic.
Then surged the ocean itself. Waves rose high, twisting and heaving, dragging all they touched into the abyss. The sea, in its convulsion, drew back from the shore, revealing its terrifying bed—grim, dark, and lifeless.
And yet Rama, noble even in fury, stayed his hand. Bound by dharma, he withheld the arrow. In that sacred pause, the Lord of the Sea emerged—resplendent as the rising sun from the golden peak of Meru. Bejeweled, crowned with pearls and adorned in gold and silver, the Ocean King came forward, accompanied by divine serpents and sacred rivers incarnate—Ganga, Sindhu, and others. His countenance glowed with serene majesty; around him danced the aura of wind and cloud, forming a celestial halo.
With palms folded and voice both humble and commanding, the Ocean spoke:
“O righteous prince, Rama, all elements—earth, air, fire, water, and sky—abide by cosmic law. My nature is to be deep and wave-swayed, for such is the balance ordained. Should I still my currents or rise in shallows, it would bring ruin to all life within me. Neither fear, nor desire, nor love, nor even reverence can alter my duty.”
He continued: “I shall, however, offer you guidance. There lies a path through my waters where I shall hold still my waves and command the creatures to depart. There you may lay your bridge. Yet, your arrow, once drawn, must find its mark.”
Rama, solemn and unwavering, asked, “Then show me where my arrow shall fall.”
The Ocean replied: “To the north lies a cursed land, Drumakukya—infested by vile beings of demonic origin, who defile the waters and endanger all that lives. Cast your arrow there, and cleanse the world of their scourge.”
At once, Rama let fly the celestial shaft. It tore through the air and struck the land of the sinners. Flames rose, evil perished, and from the ashes bloomed life anew. The place, once called Marukantara—land of death—became green and fertile, its rivers purified, its lands rich with harvest and honey, cattle and herbs, fruits and forests.
Satisfied, the Ocean King bowed again and said, “O prince of dharma, among your army is Nala, son of the divine architect Vishwakarma. Gifted by his father, he is second to none in craftsmanship. Let him build your bridge, and I shall bear its weight.”
Nala stepped forward, radiant with humility, and affirmed, “What the Ocean has said is true. My father blessed me, and I am ready to fulfil my duty. Summon the vanara warriors.”
At once, herds of monkeys swarmed the shores, bringing mighty trees—arjuna, coconut, palmyra—and great stones. They uprooted hills and dragged them to the sea. As Nala guided them, the construction began. Ropes bound trees together, grass filled the gaps, and the waters churned with the weight of the labor.
The bridge rose—majestic, wide as a battlefield, gleaming like the parted hair of the divine. Celestial beings—siddhas, gandharvas, and sages—looked on in awe, proclaiming it the noose of Yama for the neck of Ravana. Monkeys danced and played upon it, celebrating the impossible.
At last, the bridge reached Lanka’s shore. There stood Vibhishana, noble brother of the demon king, his mace in hand, awaiting the tide of destiny. He addressed Rama:
“O lord of valor, let Hanuman bear you across the sky, and let Lakshmana ride with Angada. We shall take to the heavens!”
Thus Rama, with bow in hand and heart set firm, advanced. The vanara hosts surged forward—leaping, swimming, flying—fueled by a joy uncontainable. Their war cries overpowered the roar of the sea. Sugreeva, their king, guided them through forests lush with fruit, roots, and honey.
The siddhas and celestials anointed Rama and Lakshmana with sacred waters, praying for their triumph.
Thus began the righteous march—the divine stride of dharma—to bring down the dark kingdom of demons. The hearts of gods and saints whispered prayers, for the hour of justice had come.
