novelraw Arc 8 - Draupadī Haraṇa Parva Chapter 5 - The Slaying of Rāvaṇa
Arc 8 - Draupadī Haraṇa Parva Chapter 5 - The Slaying of Rāvaṇa
Markandeya continued:
Then arose a battle dreadful as the end of an age.
Prahasta, general of the rākṣasa hosts, rushed like a thundercloud upon Vibhīṣaṇa. With a roar that shook the field, he smote him with a mace heavy as destiny. Yet Vibhīṣaṇa, steady in Dharma, stood unmoved as Himālaya stands unmoved against the gale.
Then seizing a javelin vast and ringing with a hundred bells, Vibhīṣaṇa chanted mantras and hurled it forth. Like the thunderbolt of Indra it sped, and smote Prahasta’s head from his body. That mighty rākṣasa toppled to the earth like a mountain tree riven by the storm.
Beholding Prahasta fallen, Dhumrākṣa advanced, leading a tide of rākṣasas as dark and terrible as storm-clouds. At his onset the vānaras wavered and fled.
But Hanumān, son of the Wind, stood firm as Meru. Beholding him unmoved, the vānaras turned back, roaring their defiance. Then rose a tumult like the clash of gods and asuras in primeval days. Blood ran in torrents, earth was churned into mire, the skies shook with cries of rage.
Dhumrākṣa hurled maces and clubs, striking down countless forest warriors. Hanumān tore trees by the roots, their branches unshorn, and whirled them like Indra’s bolt. They clashed—mace against tree, iron against living wood—till sparks flew like meteors.
At last Hanumān, red with wrath, struck down Dhumrākṣa, slaying his charioteer and steeds, and splintering his golden car. The rākṣasa fell like a crag hurled from heaven. Seeing him dead, the monkeys exulted, and pressed the rākṣasas so hard that they broke and fled, their spirits broken, seeking the refuge of Lanka.
The remnant of that shattered host reached Rāvaṇa’s palace and told of the ruin—Prahasta slain, Dhumrākṣa fallen, the armies scattered by the vānaras’ fury. Rāvaṇa sighed deeply, anguish burning his ten faces. Rising from his gem-studded throne, he said:
“The hour has come for Kumbhakarṇa!”
Then, by drums, conches, and clashing cymbals, he roused his slumbering brother. For six months had Kumbhakarṇa slept in his mountain cave, bound by Brahmā’s boon. Now, with great labour, they awakened him.
At length the titan arose, vast as a hill, shaking off his drowsiness like a lion rising from its lair. Seated at ease, recovered in strength, he listened as Rāvaṇa, fevered with fear and wrath, spoke:
“Brother, thou art blessed indeed, wrapped in deep repose, heedless of the ruin that consumes us! Rāma with his ocean of monkeys hath crossed the sea by a bridge of stone, wrought by Nala’s hand, and now assails Lanka. I carried away his Sītā by stealth, and now he comes with Lakṣmaṇa, red in wrath, to recover her. Our chief captains—Prahasta and Dhumrākṣa—lie slain. There is none but thee who can meet this storm. Rise, put on thine armour, and go forth! Slay Rāma and his host, or Lanka is lost. I will send with thee the brothers of Duṣaṇa, Vajravega and Pramāthin, each with his legion, to aid thee in the slaughter!”
Thus urged, the mighty Kumbhakarṇa, still half-drowsy yet fierce, stretched his limbs like a mountain rending the earth. With Vajravega and Pramāthin at his side, he sallied forth from the gates of Lanka, his tread shaking the city like thunder.
Markandeya said:
Kumbhakarṇa, vast as a mountain, strode forth from the gates of Lanka, roaring like the sea at doomsday. Around him surged his followers, fierce rākṣasas by the thousands, their banners black as smoke and their weapons glinting with cruel fire.
Soon he came upon the vanara host, encamped like a second ocean upon the shore. At once the warriors of Sugrīva leapt to meet him, hurling trees, boulders, and mountain-crests. They clawed at his iron frame with nails and fangs, striking him with their strength. Yet Kumbhakarṇa only laughed, a sound like rolling thunder, and seizing the foremost of them—Chala, Chandachala, Vajravāhu—he devoured them like morsels. The sight struck terror through the army, and a wail arose, loud as a storm-wind sweeping through the woods.
Hearing the cries, Sugrīva, lord of the vānaras, bounded forward, Sala tree in hand. With all his might he smote Kumbhakarṇa on the head. The blow rang out like the crash of Indra’s mace upon a mountain peak, yet the rākṣasa did not flinch. With arms like serpent coils he seized Sugrīva and dragged him away.
Then Lakṣmaṇa, son of Sumitrā, beheld the plight of his ally. Raising his golden-winged shaft, he let fly. The arrow sped swift as thought, piercing Kumbhakarṇa’s armour and cleaving his chest. Blood flowed in torrents, and in pain the titan released Sugrīva.
In wrath, Kumbhakarṇa seized a mass of stone, huge as a hill-summit, and hurled it at Lakṣmaṇa. But before it fell, Lakṣmaṇa loosed two razor-headed arrows. They sheared through the rākṣasa’s mighty arms, and the stone crashed harmlessly aside. Yet from his wounded frame more arms sprouted, twice the number, each grasping a mountain boulder. Once again Lakṣmaṇa’s arrows, keen as fire, clove them away.
Enraged, Kumbhakarṇa swelled in size until he towered like a range of hills. His body sprouted countless heads, arms, and legs, a horror filling heaven and earth. Then Lakṣmaṇa, calm as Dharma itself, fitted to his bow the Brahma-weapon. Bright as the sun, it sped and split the monstrous form as a thunderbolt splits a tree. The titan roared once, shaking sky and sea, then fell, shattering the earth like a burning forest cast down by lightning. Thus perished Kumbhakarṇa, terror of gods and asuras alike.
The rākṣasa host, beholding their mountain-like champion slain, fled in fear. But Vajravega and Pramāthin, brothers of Duṣaṇa, rallied them and charged upon Lakṣmaṇa. Their arrows fell like storms, and the son of Sumitrā met them with a ceaseless rain of shafts.
The battle blazed—arrows streaked like meteors, cries of wrath shook the field, and blood ran like rivers. Then Hanumān, son of the Wind, seized a mountain peak and smote Vajravega, crushing the life from him. Nala, mighty among monkeys, hurled a boulder upon Pramāthin, and he too lay broken on the earth.
Though their champions fell, the war did not cease. Rākṣasas and vānaras clashed in countless duels, slaying and being slain. The field grew red, the air black with dust and cries. Yet the loss of the rākṣasas was heavier, for the sons of the forest fought with unquenchable fury, driven by the cause of Rāma.
Thus the tide of battle raged on, Lanka trembling as her mighty defenders fell one by one.
Markandeya said:
When tidings of ruin reached the palace—that Prahasta had fallen, Dhumrākṣa was slain, and Kumbhakarṇa lay stretched like a mountain struck down—Rāvaṇa’s heart blazed with wrath and grief. His eyes turned toward Indrajit, his invincible son, master of māyā and celestial weapons.
“Son,” said the Ten-Headed, “thou who once didst humble the thousand-eyed Indra, it is for thee now to preserve my fame. Go forth with thy invisible might, with the weapons gained from boons of the gods. Strike down Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sugrīva. Let the forest-dwellers perish beneath thy arrows, as stars vanish before the rising sun. What Prahasta and Kumbhakarṇa could not achieve, may it be thine to accomplish. Slay them all, and gladden my heart as once before when thou didst subdue the lord of Sachi himself!”
Thus urged, Indrajit, clad in mail, mounted his chariot and sped to the battlefield. His voice thundered across the plain as he challenged Lakṣmaṇa to single combat.
Lakṣmaṇa, bow in hand, advanced swiftly, his string resounding like rolling thunder. The duel of the two masters of astras was fierce as the clash of gods and asuras. Indrajit showered javelins like blazing meteors, but Sumitrā’s son split them midair with shafts of lightning edge.
Then Angada, son of Vāli, rushed forth with a Sala tree and struck the rākṣasa on the crown. Indrajit reeled but did not falter; in rage he seized a lance to smite the monkey prince. Swift as thought Lakṣmaṇa cleaved the weapon into fragments, scattering it like sparks in the wind.
The rākṣasa, burning with fury, swung his mace against Angada’s flank. But Angada, undaunted, uprooted another great tree and hurled it. With a crash it shattered Indrajit’s chariot, horses, and charioteer. Hemmed in and dismounted, the son of Rāvaṇa vanished, melting into invisibility by his māyā.
Then terror fell upon the vānaras. For from the unseen ether came showers of arrows, keen-edged and cruel, piercing flesh and bone. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa themselves were struck unceasingly, their bodies bristling with shafts like porcupines with quills.
The princes loosed shafts into the void, searching the hidden foe. The monkeys hurled rocks, mountain-crests, and trees into the sky, striving to smite the unseen rākṣasa. Yet the arrows of Indrajit fell upon them like rain from a storm cloud, scattering them in grief and confusion.
Thus did the son of Rāvaṇa, veiled in illusion, wound both Rāghava and Sumitrā’s son till they staggered and fell senseless to the earth—two suns darkened, two moons struck from the sky.
Markandeya said:
Grief convulsed Laṅkā when the empty chariot drew near—its lord’s son gone, his headless trunk a ghastly token upon the field. Rāvaṇa, ten-faced, ten-throated, sank under the weight of that grief; his breast heaved like a storm-tossed sea. For a while his soul wandered in the black night of despair, and wrath and woe strove within him. Then counsel, fiercer than sorrow, rose and put the old grief to flame.
Rāvaṇa, king of terrible prowess, threw himself into his car, his mail flashing like a furnace-belt. Around him the city’s warriors marshalled; the very earth shuddered as he shook his spear and set his helm upon his head. He wiped the blood and dust from his faces and breathed forth an ocean-voice of challenge that rolled over the plain. “Now will I slay the usurper of my fame,” he cried; “now will the house of Raghu fall under my shafts!”
He yoked his steeds that drank the lightning, he called the names of dreadful weapons that men dare not speak of idly; he set the wheels a-turning and sprang forth like a mountain hurled upon the world. Behind him went Prahasta’s remnant hosts and troopers reeking of carnage; before him flamed his wrath. Rama, beholding the Ten-headed rise as a black dawn, girded himself with calm and the strength of his fathers. He stood amid his hosts, the archer-soul steady as the pole. Vibhīṣaṇa, white-wreathed and stern, stood near him; Sugrīva and the elders of the forest formed the ranks.
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Stand firm, O host, as river-stone,
Let courage hold and fear be flown;
For virtue armed and bowstring true
Shall pierce the dark and rend it through.
Thus did they meet—two rulers, each the thunder of his realm: Rāma, the son of Daśaratha, whose arrows were like the order of the world; and Rāvaṇa, the Ten-necked, whose arms were a storm of iron. Their chariots clanged; their standards shivered in the wind. Each called the other names of fate and doom. With a cry like a hundred rivers loosed, Rāvaṇa hurled his first black volleys; Rama answered with shafts that sang like the morning.
They closed. The very sky grew narrow with the rain of weapons. Rāvaṇa shook the reins, and his iron lances bit; Rama’s arrows flew like Vedic hymns, unswerving and true. Many a mighty car roared between them and fell; many a banner that had laughed in pride lay trampled in its own gore.
By sādhu’s vow and brahman’s flame,
By father’s truth, by mother’s name,
I strike this night where sin hath rolled—
The tyrant’s head, the ages’ scold.
As the contest raged, both kings called down from heaven the astras of old. Rāvaṇa’s shafts were fierce with the spells of Pulastya; Rama answered with weapons consecrated by the gods and the praise of saints. Once, twice, the sons of Lanka surged like black waves; once, twice, the hosts of the forest broke their ranks. But righteousness, marched by Rāma, held its ground and made of every fallen friend a spur to victory.
At last the decisive hour was struck. Rama invoked a thunderous arrow, bright as the seed of Brahmā’s thought, and loosed it with a prayer. It rushed like a roaring comet, cleaving illusions, burning enchantment, finding the king in the fulness of his might. That arrow of the worshipped and the vowed smote Rāvaṇa where his life was knit to his sin. The Ten-headed one reeled; his hundred limbs trembled; his faces were streaked with twilight. With one last great cry that shook the hills and fell like a peal of doom upon Laṅkā, the demon-king crumpled; his car lurched; his spears dropped; the tyrant lay slain upon the trampled grass.
Ten heads bowed low, ten banners broke,
The tyrant’s thunder snapped like yoke.
What darkness bore him, darkness claims—
The world is purged by sacred flames.
Silence sank like a benediction. The stench of battle gave place to a hush wherein even birds seemed to listen. Then from the ruined gates, those of Laṅkā who would choose dharma came forth—white-wreathed Vibhīṣaṇa above them all. He stepped to Rama’s car and, with humility and joy, placed his hands before him. Rama, son of the solar line, received that homage and, by his act, restored the right order. He installed Vibhīṣaṇa on Laṅkā’s throne, that the city might be ruled by one who loves righteousness.
Sītā, brought forth by the faithful, stood again before her lord. Rama, son of Ikṣvāku, having first proved her steadfastness by the tests that truth alone can bear—then, with the heart of a king and the tenderness of a husband, took his wife in his arms. The armies of the forest raised a cry that shook the ocean; the peoples of the three worlds heard and praised.
Dharma rose where darkness fell,
The broken were made whole and well.
Let sages sing and bards declare:
The just prevail, and justice spare.
Thus did the long grief of Sītā end in the triumph of virtue. O king, tell thou this to the assembly, that they may learn—when right is armed by courage and counsel, even the mightiest wrong is undone.
Markandeya said:
When the Ten-necked tyrant, burning with fury at his son’s death, hurled himself into the war, the earth trembled. His hosts pressed around him like storm-clouds about a mountain peak, and the forest-warriors, led by Hanumān, Angada, Nīla, Mainda, Jāmbavān and Sugrīva, stood firm to check his thunder. Trees were lifted as maces, rocks became their missiles, and the cries of bears and monkeys filled the four quarters. Yet Ravana, swollen with power and steeped in māyā, conjured thousands of phantom Rakshasas from his own limbs, each armed for slaughter.
But Rāma, serene as dharma itself, lifted a divine shaft and dispersed them all like mist before the morning sun. Again the Ten-necked raised illusion: countless forms resembling Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa came forth, shooting fierce arrows. At this Sumitrā’s son cried, “Brother, these shadows of thyself—destroy them!” and Rāma, piercing them with unfailing shafts, scattered the mirage.
Then from the sky descended Mātali, Indra’s own charioteer, driving a car resplendent as the midday sun, yoked with tawny steeds that drank the wind. He bowed and spoke:
“O lion of Raghu’s race, arise,
On Indra’s car ascend the skies;
This seat hath borne a thousand wars,
Now bear it thou ‘gainst night-born powers.”
Yet Rāma hesitated, deeming it another of the Rakshasa’s snares, until Vibhīṣaṇa, true in counsel, said, “This is no illusion. Accept, O prince, what the gods themselves have sent!” Thus assured, Rāma mounted the radiant car and grasped his bow, while the worlds looked on.
Then, O king, the Ten-headed and Rāma clashed like mountain and tempest. Ravana’s spear blazed like a curse born of wrath; Rāma’s arrows shattered it into sparks. Enraged, the Rakshasa loosed storms of weapons—maces, darts, axes, and flaming sataghnis—till the sky darkened and the monkeys quailed.
“O Brahmā’s fire, by mantra bound,
Through heaven and hell thy course be found;
Strike now where night and evil reign,
And free the earth from bondage’s chain.”
Upon his bow Rāma placed an arrow winged with gold, plumed with sacred mantra, burning with the breath of Brahmā. The heavens fell silent, the oceans hushed, the gods leaned forward with folded hands. Then the arrow sped, a streak of blazing destiny.
It struck Ravana’s breast, and at once his chariot, steeds, and banner burst into dreadful flame. His ten faces roared and fell silent; the elements themselves forsook him. His mighty frame was consumed; flesh, blood, bone—all vanished into ashless nothingness, as though dharma itself erased the stain of his life.
And when the lord of the Rakshasas fell, the three worlds exulted. Celestials and Gandharvas, Siddhas and Cāraṇas showered blossoms from the heavens; conches and kettledrums thundered; hymns rose like rivers of praise. Rāma, wielder of truth, had loosed the arrow that ended an age of terror.
“Darkness dies where virtue stands,
Evil falls to righteous hands;
Through Raghu’s son the worlds are free,
Glory, glory eternally!”
Thus perished Ravana the Ten-necked, bereft of pride and power. Thus shone Rāma, the upholder of law, with Lakṣmaṇa by his side, as the very embodiment of dharma victorious.
Markandeya said:
When the Ten-necked one, scourge of gods and worlds, had been consumed by Rāma’s Brahmāstra, the earth itself breathed relief. The skies resounded with jaya, jaya; blossoms rained from heaven; Gandharvas and Siddhas sang, and the quarters shone with celestial splendour, as if the universe itself celebrated its deliverance.
Rāma, with Lakṣmaṇa and the hosts of Vānara warriors, stood radiant, his task fulfilled. And then, with his heart unshaken by victory, he turned to Vibhīṣaṇa and said, “O righteous one, rule thou Laṅkā. Let its gates open to dharma under thy sovereignty.” Thus, the golden isle passed from the cruel to the just.
Soon Avindhya, counsellor of Ravana, came forth humbly, placing before Rāghava the princess of Videha—her hair matted, her body soiled, clad in rough garb, yet luminous with inner purity. With Vibhīṣaṇa walking before and she behind, the lady approached her lord.
But Rāma, anxious for honour and bound by the code of kings, spoke harshly:
“Daughter of Janaka, thou art free—
The debt of battle’s paid by me.
But honour binds: how may I take
A wife whom Rakshasa hands did break?
Go where thou wilt, O Maithilī,
For thus is dharma’s law with me.”
Those words, sharp as thunderbolts, struck Sītā like death itself. She fell like a severed plantain tree, her joy extinguished in an instant. The monkeys and Lakṣmaṇa too stood silent, aghast.
Then arose in heaven Brahmā, the four-faced Lord, seated upon his lotus, with Indra, Agni, Vāyu, Varuṇa, Yama, Kubera, and all ṛṣis around him. King Daśaratha too appeared, effulgent in a swan-drawn car. The sky itself blossomed with divine presences.
Sītā rose, steadfast in her virtue, and declared before gods and men:
“If fault be mine, let Vāyu cease
To grant my breath its secret lease.
If faithless thought my spirit knew,
Let Fire and Water me undo.
Yet never dream nor waking sight
Beheld I aught but Rāghava’s light.”
At once the wind-god cried, “True are her words!” Fire said, “I dwell in all creatures; she is stainless.” Varuṇa, lord of waters, bore witness, “In her is no fault.” Then Brahmā himself declared, “By Nalakūbera’s curse was Ravana restrained. Never was thy queen touched by sin. Take her, Rāma, for she is pure as sacrifice.”
At last Daśaratha, radiant as the morning sun, spoke tenderly: “O son, I am thy sire. Accept Sītā, and return to Ayodhyā. Fourteen years are now fulfilled.” Rāma bowed, tears in his eyes, and accepted Sītā, restored to him as Lakṣmī to Nārāyaṇa.
Then Rāma, gladdened, granted gifts: to Avindhya honour and wealth, to gentle Trijatā—who had consoled Sītā in bondage—gems and protection. Sītā herself turned to Hanumān and blessed him:
Sītā’s boon
“As long as Rāma’s deeds are sung,
So long endure, O Vāyu’s son.
And food celestial, drink divine,
By my grace ever shall be thine.”
The gods, pleased, asked Rāma to choose boons. He prayed only for steadfast virtue, invincibility, and the revival of his fallen friends. Instantly the slain Vānaras rose alive, freed from wounds, their roars shaking the sky.
Then Mātali returned Indra’s car, and Rāma ascended the Pushpaka of Kubera, placing Sītā beside him. Across the ocean-spanning bridge they flew, beholding Laṅkā and the forests beneath. In Kishkindhā, he placed Angada as prince-regent, then journeyed homeward.
Hanumān went ahead to Nandigrāma, where Bharata dwelt in rags, guarding the kingdom with only Rāma’s sandals on the throne. With joy he brought news of Rāma’s victory.
Soon the sons of Daśaratha were reunited—Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, Bharata, and Śatrughna. Tears flowed, hearts overflowed, and Sītā too was embraced with reverence.
At last, under the star Śravaṇa, with Vasishṭha and Vāmadeva officiating, Rāma was installed as king of Ayodhyā. Sugrīva returned to his realm, Vibhīṣaṇa to Laṅkā, all honoured and laden with gifts.
The Pushpaka was returned to Kubera, and Rāma, the embodiment of dharma, performed ten horse-sacrifices on the banks of the Gomati, enriching Brahmanas and securing the glory of his reign.
“Thus Rāma ruled with Sītā fair,
With brothers true and kingdom’s care;
So long as mountains crown the land,
Shall Rāma’s glory ever stand.”
Markandeya said:
"Thus it was, O mighty-armed son of Dharma, that Rāma of immeasurable energy, lord of the Ikṣvāku race, endured afflictions beyond measure in consequence of his exile to the forest. Yet, in the end, by strength of arms, by loyalty of allies, and by the righteousness of his cause, he triumphed and established dharma upon earth.
Therefore, O tiger among men, do not let grief consume thee. Thou too art a Kṣatriya, born to tread the path of trial, endurance, and battle—a path that yields tangible fruits, renown, and everlasting fame. No sin is thine, O son of Pāṇḍu! Even the gods with Indra at their head, and the Daityas with their fierce might, are subject to this same path of struggle, loss, and victory.
Remember, the wielder of the thunderbolt, urged by the Maruts, only after afflictions slew Vṛtra, Namuci, and the long-tongued Rākṣasī. He that hath allies never faileth in his undertakings. And what enterprise can fail, when Dhanañjaya is thy brother, whose arms hold the bow like the lightning of Indra? What foe may stand, when Bhīma of dreadful might, foremost among strong men, marcheth to battle? The twin sons of Mādrī, heroes youthful and terrible with the bow, are like the Aśvinī gods themselves.
Having these allies, O chastiser of foes, thou shalt prevail over the armies of the wielder of the thunderbolt himself, though backed by the Maruts. With such companions by thy side, how then canst thou despair?
Behold—this Kṛṣṇā, daughter of Drupada, whom the wicked Saindhava carried away in arrogance, was rescued by these thy brothers after feats that shook the earth. King Jayadratha himself lay vanquished before thee, powerless and disgraced. Think then, O king, how Janaka’s daughter, though borne into Rāvaṇa’s prison, was rescued by Rāma—whose allies were but monkeys and black-faced bears, creatures not even human! Yet that son of Daśaratha accomplished the impossible.
Reflect on all this, O foremost of the Kurus. Grieve not, O bull of Bharata’s race. For heroes, illustrious and high-souled, never yield to sorrow."
Vaiśampāyana continued:
"Thus consoled by the sage Mārkaṇḍeya, the king Yudhiṣṭhira, casting away his grief like a dark garment, once more addressed the great Ṛṣi with reverence and eagerness."