Soumithri, son of Sumitra, stood crimson like a statue sculpted from blood, every limb marked by the struggle, for he had struck down Indrajit, the conjurer of illusions and terror of all worlds. The heavens rejoiced, the earth sighed in relief, and the netherworld quaked, for the slayer of the present and future dread had fallen.
Lakshmana, wounded and weary, leaned upon the strength of Vibhishana and the steadfastness of Hanuman and made his way to the camp of Rama and Sugreeva. There, with folded hands and downcast eyes, he approached his brother like a flickering flame before the sun. His voice, faint and trembling, murmured of Indrajit’s fall.
Then Vibhishana, with solemn breath, recounted the valor of Soumithri, who had cleaved the dark head of the demon in open battle. Rama, moved and mighty in heart, gazed upon his brother and said, “O Lakshmana! Thou hast accomplished that which was deemed beyond reach. The fall of Indrajit is the fall of Lanka’s spirit. Victory is now in our grasp.” And with arms wide, he embraced Lakshmana and spoke: “Thy wounds speak of thy courage. Thou needest rest. Indrajit’s death hath sundered Ravana’s soul. His hope lies broken, for his son was the right arm of his will.”
He praised Vibhishana and Hanuman, their worth beyond reckoning in the tide of war. Then Rama summoned Sushena, the sage-physician, knower of ancient remedies, and said: “Let Soumithri be healed of all wounds, and let Vibhishana too be restored. Cleanse their flesh of metal and poison, and awaken their spirit anew.”
Sushena, with knowledge vast as oceans, labored with herbs and chants. In two turns of time, he healed them both, brought vigor to the fallen, and tended to all wounded warriors. The camp stirred with life once more, and the simians rejoiced, their hearts brimming with spirit. But the demon world sank into shadow, for their cruel backbone had snapped, and the throne of Lanka seemed stripped of protection.
The guards of Indrajit, trembling and unsure, struggled to speak truth without earning wrath. They framed their tale before the demon king, shifting fault towards Vibhishana that they might be spared. “O King,” they said, “Indrajit, thy undefeated son, was vanquished by Lakshmana, aided by Vibhishana. We were powerless beneath their might, and watched, helpless, as his life was taken.” Thus, did they twist their words to shield their fate, cunningly casting shadow on Ravana’s brother.
In the skies, the celestials shone in joy, their prayers answered. The sages, once hunted, breathed free. The hermits returned to sacred rites unafraid. But in Lanka’s palace, grief fell like night. Ravana stood, a king torn by sorrow, and cried, “What use is this earth, this forest, this golden city, without my son? The void within me none can fill. The cries of women in the palace echo like an elephant’s wail for her mate.”
“O mighty son, my dread to my foes, where art thou gone? You were to perform my last rites—yet I live and you perish. You should have freed me from the torment of Rama. Instead, you are gone, and my enemies stand breathing still. Why, O beloved, did you abandon us?”
Grief turned to fire, and Ravana’s soul blazed with rage. His face twisted like stormy seas, his breath roared as Vruttrasura’s laugh. His anger surged, and in madness, he declared, “I shall strike Sita’s head from her body this moment!” His eyes, ever red, now flamed like molten suns. His limbs trembled like Rudra in his dance of destruction. Tears of fire dripped from his lashes, his teeth gnashed with the grinding of metal. None dared meet his gaze, for he seemed as Death himself.
Yet, as he stormed forth, he remembered his vows, his power granted by Brahma. “None of gods can slay me,” he cried. “The armor gifted by the Creator is beyond the reach of Indra’s thunderbolt. It shines like the sun and cannot be breached. I shall don it now and mount the divine chariot. The bow and arrows bestowed by Brahma shall strike fear into Rama and Lakshmana.”
He commanded: “Bring forth the sacred weapons, not by sorcery but through Vedic rite. Let no dark arts sully them. Let purity and ritual lead.” Then he said, “Indrajit once showed them Sita’s illusioned death. Now I shall make it true. Rama shall be shattered, lost in grief. Let him weep in despair as I strike down his beloved.”
He seized his dreadful sword and, like a maddened elephant, stormed toward Sita’s abode. The demonesses guarding her saw his fearsome form and trembled. Sita beheld his approach, the sword gleaming, his wrath unbridled. Her heart swayed between dread and defiance. “Has he slain Rama and Lakshmana and now comes for me? Or has he lost all and seeks vengeance?” she pondered.
She recalled Hanuman’s counsel with regret. “Had I heeded him, I would be in Rama’s arms. If Kausalya hears of Rama’s death, she shall perish in sorrow. The cruel Mandhara is the seed of this misery. O my lord, where art thou now?” Her mind clouded like the moon in eclipse.
But in that hour of peril, Suparsva, noble among demons, virtuous and wise, stepped forth. Though others signaled silence, he spoke: “Ravana, brother of Kubera, how can you tread adharma’s path? You, well-versed in the Vedas, who once stood before the sacred fire in ritual—will you now slay a woman? Restrain your fury. Turn it upon Rama in the field of war. Today is Krishna Chaturthi. Begin the rites of battle. On Amavasya, go forth to victory. Wear your celestial armor, wield the invincible Chandrahasa, and crush your foes in combat. But harm not Sita—this is not the path of kings.”
The storm in Ravana’s heart quieted. Suparsva’s words, firm yet loyal, found their mark. The demon king, calmed, turned back, his entourage trailing him like shadows. In every step, destiny’s thread could be felt weaving a new design. The tides had turned. The battle of good and evil marched to its climax. And in that unfolding tale, one truth gleamed—victory bows not to rage or pride, but to courage, wisdom, and unity of purpose. For the fall of evil must first pass through the fire of resolve.
