Rāvana sent the missile of the sun, which Rāma’s arrows sliced into discs that lit up the four quarters. Some of Rāvana’s arrows struck Rāma, but that fearless warrior did not feel the pain. Rāma’s arrows struck Rāvana’s armor, but bounced off.
Then Lakshmana’s arrow beheaded the charioteer, while Vibhīshana smashed Rāvana’s horses with his mace. Rāvana leapt out just before his chariot crashed to the earth. Incensed by his younger brother’s blows, Rāvana hoisted a javelin to kill him, but Lakshmana stepped between the two brothers and fired off a volley of arrows.
Watching Lakshmana protect Vibhīshana, Rāvana called out to him, “Your strength is worthy of praise, but now I will hurl this javelin at you with all my might and end your life.”
Seeing the powerful javelin of the demon Maya sailing through the air with its eight bells, Rāma prayed, “May Lakshmana live long. May this javelin fall down without hitting its mark.” But the javelin struck Lakshmana full in the chest, pierced him through, and pinned him to the ground, his blood spurting in all directions. Seizing the javelin in both hands, not minding the arrows from Rāvana that continued to rain on him, Rāma wrenched it from his brother’s body and snapped it in two.
“For this I will send Rāvana to his death this very day,” vowed Rāma. “I will repay him for the misery Sītā and I have suffered at his hands. This is the day I have been waiting for, like the rain cloud waiting until the right season to shower the earth. Today all the monkeys, Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis will see my true power as a warrior, the unconquerable strength that makes me Rāma.”
Rāma, his eyes streaming with tears, seeing his brother suffering on account of that demon, felt his rage rekindle and sent a torrent of arrows at Rāvana. Unable to withstand the intensity of Rāma’s onslaught, the rākshasa king fled from the battlefield to find another chariot.
His enemy routed, Rāma fell on his knees and cried out, “How can I fight when my brother lies on the ground fatally wounded? Where would I ever find such a brother as he? What use is fighting, what use is a kingdom or my life, without Lakshmana?”
Sushena, the highly respected monkey chief and physician, reassured Rāma with well-spoken words. “You must not grieve. Your brother is not dying; he sleeps and breathes. See the bright color on his face and limbs, and his smile of satisfaction? Those are the marks of a long-lived man.”
Sushena quickly crushed the right herb and placed it under Lakshmana’s nose. Smelling the medicinal herb, Lakshmana immediately sat up, his wounds healed in an instant.
Rāma and the monkeys rejoiced, and Rāma embraced his brother again and again. Though still weak, Lakshmana had the presence of mind to whisper, “You must not waste time thinking about me. You have made a vow to kill Rāvana, and one who speaks only truth must honor his promises. No enemy has ever escaped your arrows. Now is the time to fulfill your long-held intention.”
Galvanized by Lakshmana’s words, Rāma grabbed his bow and stood waiting for Rāvana, who barreled onto the battlefield in a new chariot and hammered Rāma with arrows as rain clouds storm a mountain.
—
AT THIS POINT, the Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis who had gathered to watch remarked that it was not a fair fight—Rāma stood alone on the ground with only a bow and arrows, while Rāvana had an unending supply of chariots equipped with every kind of weapon. Indra, the king of the Devas, decided to make the fight more equal.
He ordered his charioteer, Mātali, to drive to earth in his golden chariot, resplendent as the sun, decorated with jewels and hundreds of tinkling bells, and present it to Rāma. Mātali greeted Rāma with folded hands and said, “Indra asked me to offer this to you, to ensure your victory.” He handed Rāma the brilliant bow of Indra, plus a long and sharp javelin. Then he said, “I will be your driver. With this chariot, bow, and javelin, you will slay the king of demons.”
Rāma circled the chariot and bowed before it in reverence to Indra. He shone radiant like the sun. The Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis called down from above, “Victory to Shrī Rāma!” The asuras also watched from the sky and cried, “Victory to Rāvana!”
Once again Rāvana attacked Rāma with the dread asura weapon, only this time the arrows became serpents. To counter that, Rāma sent the missile of Garuda, all gold and fire, and his arrows became golden eagles that frightened the snakes away.
Next Rāvana shot down the flagstaff of Mātali, Indra’s charioteer, and even struck the charioteer and horses of Indra with his arrows. The Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis cried out, distressed to see Rāmachandra, bright like the full moon, eclipsed by Rāvana, who swallowed light like Rāhu, the devourer of the moon.
Rāma roared like thunder. His eyes turned red and a terrible rage overtook him. The worlds trembled, the earth quaked, and the ocean seethed in a mass of waves.
At that moment Rāvana seized his heavy spear and shouted, “I will kill you now, even though you have your brother to defend you.” He hurled the spear, and it flashed across the sky, its eight bells clanging like the knell of doom.
Without wasting a moment, Rāma hurled the javelin bestowed on him by Mātali. It blazed through the sky and broke the powerful spear of Rāvana. Before Rāvana could recover from the shock, Rāma pulverized him with arrows, striking his chest and every limb, drawing blood. He pounded Rāvana’s horses with arrows as well, sending them rearing up to the clouds.
“You are no warrior!” cried Rāma in his fury. “You are merely a thief, stealing my wife when she was alone. If you had laid a finger on Sītā when I was present, I would have killed you on the spot. I will do that deed now.”
Soon both warriors were covered with wounds all over their bodies, but Rāma did not feel pain even from the deepest afflictions. He seemed to grow stronger, nourished by his wrath. His mind was focused and untroubled, and whenever he thought of the weapon he needed, it immediately appeared to him.
Rāvana, on the other hand, grew so agitated and fatigued that he could barely lift his bow, and the arrows he shot went awry. Seeing his king’s energy flagging, Rāvana’s charioteer suddenly drove the chariot off the battlefield, out of reach of Rāma’s arrows.
When they had withdrawn to a safe distance, Rāvana suddenly recovered. But instead of thanking the charioteer for saving his life, he rebuked him, saying, “How dare you drive me away from the duel? Now I will forever be shamed by this show of cowardice. You know I love to fight and have never been afraid. Why do you act as my enemy?”
“It is the charioteer’s duty to know when to drive close to the enemy and when to retreat,” said the charioteer in his own defense. “It was my loyalty to you that made me turn back, when you were overcome with fatigue and your horses were sweating from overexertion. Now that you are conscious, whatever you command me to do, I will follow without question.”
Pleased with this answer, Rāvana said, “Turn back the chariot. Everyone knows that the great Rāvana never retreats from battle.”
—
WHILE RĀVANA WAS away, the wise sage Agastya had taken the opportunity to visit Rāma on the battlefield. He said, “O mighty Rāma, now I will teach you the hymn Āditya Hridayam, the Heart of the Sun. It will bring you victory over Rāvana. It destroys the enemy, bestows longevity and the blessings of the divine, and banishes all cares and sorrows. If you devote your mind to Sūrya, the sun, and repeat it three times, you will win every battle.”
Rāma of the devoted heart quickly learned the hymn. He repeated it three times with devotion while bowing to the sun. Sūrya gazed on the virtuous Rāma and was filled with happiness, for he knew that the evil Rāvana would soon die.
Rāvana charged Rāma with renewed ferocity. “Drive the chariot to Rāvana,” Rāma quietly directed Mātali. “Be steady and straight. I know you are Indra’s charioteer and I do not need to instruct you, but I wish to kill Rāvana now.” The charioteer, heartened by Rāma’s words, drove expertly and swiftly to Rāvana.
The portents were not favorable for Rāvana. Vultures landed on his chariot in a flock, the setting sun cast the city of Lankā in red, and the four directions and diagonals were enveloped in darkness. A thick shower of dust fell from the cloudless sky.
The two chariots wove around each other, darting this way and that, as Rāvana and Rāma shot torrents of arrows, fifty or sixty at a time. The wind stopped blowing, the seas rose in tumultuous waves, and animals across the land cried out as the sun set.
“May all be well with cows and Brahmins, may the worlds be safe, may Rāma claim victory over Rāvana,” prayed the Devas and Rishis who were watching from above.
No one had ever seen such a fight. “There is nothing that can compare,” cried the onlookers. When Rāma shot off one of the ten heads of Rāvana, another sprang up in its place. When Rāma shot off one of Rāvana’s twenty arms, another sprouted to replace it.
“How is it that these arrows that have destroyed the other rākshasas are useless in killing Rāvana?” wondered Rāma.
Yet he kept on raining arrows on his foe, as did Rāvana, and the battle went on through the dark night. At an auspicious moment, Mātali said, “O Rāma, why do you keep shooting arrows only in defense, as if you do not know how to destroy him? Send the missile of Brahmā. The time for this tyrant’s death has come.”
The weapon of Brahmā had been made for Indra to conquer the worlds. Bestowed on Rāma by the illustrious sage Agastya, in its feathers lived the wind, in its arrowhead the sun and moon. Its body was made of space, yet it weighed as much as two mountains together. Its strength derived from the essence of all animals, it tore through whole armies with ease. Blindingly radiant, adorned with the rainbow feathers of Garuda, it appeared hard and cruel to the enemy it would destroy.
Rāma fitted the dread weapon to his bow. With his mind settled and clear, he closed his eyes and used the mantras taught to him by Agastya to invoke the weapon’s celestial power. Using all of his mental and physical strength, Rāma pulled back his bow and released the missile of Brahmā.
The arrow shot in a perfect arc through the sky and pierced Rāvana’s heart. With one last earsplitting roar, Rāvana fell, his massive body with its ten heads and twenty arms cascading to the ground. At last the demon king, who made the worlds wail, had met his end.
When the valiant Vibhīshana saw his brother’s body lying on the ground, he startled everyone with his anguished lament. “How can one who triumphed over the earth, a hero in all battles, be lying here, uprooted like a tree?”
Rāma gently stemmed the tide of his friend’s grief. “It is not right to mourn for a warrior who exhibited such bravery, such unparalleled skill, such zeal for battle,” he said quietly. “Since times of old, it has been laid down that we should not grieve for the fallen warrior. Go to his side now and attend to his parting rites.”
“He was ever victorious,” Vibhīshana cried, his eyes filling with tears. “He could not be conquered by any but you. He performed all the proper duties of a ruler, knew the truth of the Veda, and lavished wealth on his friends and kingdom. Yet he rejoiced in evil deeds and terrified the holy ones. How can I perform his funeral ceremony with a settled heart?”
“Death quells all enmity,” said the greathearted Rāma. “We have achieved our purpose. Perform his rites with honor, for he is as dear to me as he is to you.”
Death quells all enmity. We have achieved our purpose.
Perform his funeral with honor, for he is as dear to me as he is to you.
—Yuddha Kānda 109.25
CHAPTER 51
Sītā’s Ordeal
WHEN THEY HEARD of Rāvana’s death, his wives went wild with grief. They staggered out of their secluded quarters, wailing, tearing at their hair, and rolling in the dust like cows that have lost their calves. Though others tried to restrain them, they broke away and ran out of the palace, through the city gates, and onto the battlefield to search for their lord’s body.
Some of the women fell on Rāvana’s legs, others on his arms, and still others on his chest. One wailed, “Oh, why didn’t our beloved listen to his well-wishers and return Sītā? He who was always victorious, who rivaled the sun in radiance, how could he be lying in the dirt?”
Then Mandodarī, Rāvana’s first queen, knelt by Rāvana’s side and cried, “No one other than the unfathomable Vishnu could slay you. You could never be conquered by Devas or rākshasas. How could you leave me a widow—I, who was the daughter of a celebrated warrior, the mother of the conqueror of Indra and the wife of the king of the worlds?
“If only you had listened to me and to Vibhīshana. If only you had allowed Sītā to return home. For it is her purity and devotion to her husband that have been your undoing. You have proven the truth of the saying: ‘The tears of women devoted to their virtuous husbands do not fall in vain.’ It was only because the Devas feared you that they did not strike you down the moment you carried her away. But the consequences of evil deeds eventually catch up to wrongdoers, just as happiness comes to the good.”
Then the virtuous and devoted Queen Mandodarī broke into sobs. “Oh, why didn’t my heart break into a thousand pieces when you breathed your last? I cannot live without you, dearest one.” Inconsolable, she collapsed on Rāvana’s chest.
As he witnessed the women mourning over Rāvana’s body, Rāma said quietly, “Now is the time to perform the rites.”
Vibhīshana and other surviving rākshasas bathed the slain demon king in herb-scented waters and adorned him with coral, jewels, and perfumes. They covered the body with mounds of flowers and carried it to the funeral ground on a silk and gold palanquin. Their eyes streaming with tears, the rākshasas built a pyre of fragrant sandalwood, placed Rāvana on the pyre, and covered him with antelope skins. Pandits chanted Vedic hymns as Vibhīshana lit the fire.
At that moment, Rāma laid down his great bow and celestial weapons. As the wind began dispersing his enemy’s ashes across the land, the wrath that helped him destroy Rāvana melted away, and once again a gentle smile graced his countenance.
Rāma embraced his charioteer Mātali and sent him back to Indra in his chariot with gratitude. The Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis, who had watched the battle from the heavens, now returned to their celestial abodes.
Then Rāma joyfully embraced Sugrīva, and Lakshmana also paid him respect. After Sugrīva returned to the monkey ranks to rest, Rāma turned to his brother. “O Lakshmana, Vibhīshana has been a loyal and true friend. It is my heartfelt desire to install him as King of Lankā.”
“So be it,” Lakshmana said as he quickly placed four golden vessels in the care of four monkeys and ordered them to gather water from the four seas. Using their skill in flying, they leapt over the land and returned as quick as thought.
Vibhīshana sat on high ground outside the walls of Lankā while the rākshasas and all the monkeys gathered around. Lakshmana held the urn over his head and, following the customs laid down in the Vedas, anointed him with the sacred water and oil. When the auspicious moment came, Rāma placed the crown on the pious Vibhīshana’s head with great love and respect.
As pandits chanted the sacred mantras to install a new king, the monkeys and Vibhīshana’s counselors and friends were filled with happiness. The rākshasas of Lankā placed pots of curds, parched rice, sweets, roasted grains, and flowers at the feet of their new king. Ever respectful of Rāma, Vibhīshana paid all honor to him and to Lakshmana, and offered all his new wealth to them.
—
AFTER THE CORONATION, when he was resting in his camp at the base of Mount Suvela, Rāma summoned Hanumān, that faithful monkey who was his most trusted servant. “If the new king of Lankā approves, I wish to see Sītā,” he said. “You who are the most sweet in speech, tell her that I am well, as are Lakshmana and Sugrīva. Tell her in your eloquent words how Rāvana came to his end. Bring her these glad tidings and report to me what she sa
ys.”
With Vibhīshana’s blessings, Hanumān entered the city of Lankā, which he knew so well. He went directly to the Ashoka Grove, where Sītā sat desolate, alone among demon women, much the same as he had left her on his earlier mission in Lankā. Hanumān stood patiently, his head bowed in respect, until she noticed him. When her face broke into a smile, he was delighted, for then he knew she remembered him.
“Devī, I bring you glad tidings,” said Hanumān. Then he told her all that had happened. “Take heart, for Rāma himself is coming to greet you.”
Sītā sat for a long while, gazing on Hanumān like one dazed by the full moon.
“O graceful goddess, why do you stay silent?” asked Hanumān after a while.
Suddenly she burst into tears. “I am so happy, I could not speak. What can I offer you for bringing me this message? Gold, gems, a throne—all the riches in the world are not enough to repay you for bringing this glad news of Rāma.
“You who speak with intelligence, you are deserving of praise. Your brilliant speech expresses all good qualities: strength, skill, knowledge of the Vedas, bravery, boldness, energy, stamina, steadiness, and humility.”
Hanumān humbly accepted this praise. Then he said, with his hands folded in respect, “With your permission, I’d like to kill these fearful guards who have tormented you so shamelessly.”
The compassionate Sītā said, “It would be wrong to punish these women, because they are slaves who must follow the orders of their ruler, and some have been kind to me. Now that Rāvana is dead, they will do me no harm. I do not blame them for all that has happened to me. It was due to some mistake in the past. Everyone reaps the consequences of their actions. No one can escape their own destiny.”
Sītā went on to say, “It is never right to answer evil with evil. The jewel of the virtuous is their good conduct. The virtuous are compassionate to all, even criminals who are sentenced to death. For who is so perfect that he can say he is without fault?”
The Ramayana Page 38