In the dread days of the great Titan-war, when fury ruled the field and valor kindled every breast, no warrior turned aside, nor spared his breath, for each sought glory and death in the service of his sovereign. Blood soaked the soil, and warriors fell like summer lakes vanishing under the cruel sun.
From both camps the numbers waned, drawn to doom like stars pulled to darkness. Then Ravana, the ten-headed lord of Lanka, grieved sorely at the fall of Virupaksha and the crumbling of his proud host. With voice heavy yet firm, he turned to Mahodara, towering and fierce, and spake thus: “O thou in whom the hope of Lanka breathes! Now is the hour to repay thy debt. Strike down the foe, prove thy vow, and let thine arms speak loyalty to my throne!”
That command, gentle in tone but strong in soul, stirred fire in Mahodara’s heart. With wrath like a thundercloud, he leapt into the fray, a whirlwind of ruin, like a locust whirling into flame. Vanaras fell in heaps beneath his blows, crushed by his iron rage. The war, inflamed anew, roared louder, and lives poured away like waters from a broken dam. Amid this terror, the simians fled unto Sugreeva, their chieftain, who rose to face the storm.
The son of Aditya seized a heavy stone and hurled it upon Mahodara. But the demon sundered it with shafts, and broken fragments dropped like flocks of birds cut from the sky. Arrows rained from Mahodara, tearing into Sugreeva’s flesh till his form dripped crimson, a moving statue of blood. But the simian king, undaunted, seized a pestle lying near, and dashed the demon’s steeds to death.
Then, with mace in hand, he met his foe in a wrathful duel. They clashed like battling bulls, their weapons thundering, sparks flashing, smoke rising as fire met fire. Mahodara’s mace came down in fury—Sugreeva escaped by a breath, and lo! hurled the pestle with thunderous swing. The demon countered; both weapons collided midair, a blaze and a roar, and fell shattered to the earth.
Deprived of arms, they locked in furious grapple, pushing and pulling, flinging and tripping, matched in power, without yield or triumph. Then, Mahodara beheld a sword and shield lying close; he seized them in haste. Sugreeva too armed himself. What followed was no mere combat but a tempest of skill—leaping, turning, flying, dodging, their limbs danced with fierce purpose.
In frustration and haste, Mahodara drove his sword through Sugreeva’s shield, but ere he could draw it back, Sugreeva’s hand, swift as thought, cleft his head from his body—crown and jewels flying. The giant form toppled like a mountain struck by lightning. Beholding this horror, the demon host scattered in panic. Mahodara’s fall struck Ravana with wild grief, yet to Rama and his warriors, it was a triumph lit with celestial light.
The demon ranks stood paralyzed, for terror clasped them fast—if they fled, Ravana’s wrath awaited; if they stood, death from simian hands was sure. What path remained, save the path of perishing? Sugreeva’s name was hailed by gods, by sages, and the stars above. Yet vengeance brewed still, for Mahaparswa, kin to the slain, burned with rage. His heart, a furnace, turned against Angada and his brave retinue.
Like storm-wind shaking ripe trees, he swept through vanaras, cutting down lives as fruit from boughs. Arrows flew from him in an endless stream, severing limbs, dimming courage. Angada, son of noble Vali, saw that speech would not rouse his kin—only action. He found a pestle and hurled it with wrath upon Mahaparswa’s chariot, striking him senseless, the horses falling in chaos.
Then mighty Jambavan, dark and gleaming, heaved a stone that shattered the broken chariot. Rising in fury, Mahaparswa showered arrows upon Angada, Jambavan, and Gavaksha, drawing blood with every shaft. Angada, his blood now fire, seized a bludgeon and with whirling arm smote the demon’s head and hand, casting bow and crown to earth.
Knowing fate had offered the opening blow, Angada struck the demon’s face, then leapt aside as an axe whirled toward him. Swift was his movement—he evaded like lightning, fleeing sky. Then, drawing the strength of his noble sire, he clenched his fist and struck the demon’s chest with a blow like Indra’s thunderbolt.
Mahaparswa crumpled, lifeless, breath gone before his form reached the ground. No cry came, only silence. The demon host wailed aloud, their hearts broken, and fled from the wrath of the vanaras. Ravana’s rage rose to a storm, pride wounded, his spirit wounded deeper. But the sky itself now rang with the simians’ victory-cries—cries that touched the stars, filled the caves, echoed through mountains and seas, rolled across Lanka’s ramparts and towers.
Women and children trembled, hearts tossed in dread. Ravana, crushed in soul yet still blazing with wrath, gathered his shame and fury into one last resolve—to wage a war not of conquest, but of liberation, to free his people through annihilation or doom. Thus, stood he, a king scorned and raging, as the sky darkened and fate marched nearer.0
