When Khara, the fearsome rākṣasa, saw his sister Śūrpaṇakhā fallen to the ground, her face disfigured and her body covered in blood, a terrible anger ignited within him. He strode to her side and demanded, “Rise up now! Cast off your confusion and fear. Tell me plainly—who has done this to you? Who has dared to harm you so, as if carelessly touching a deadly serpent, not realizing the danger? Who, with the noose of death already around his neck, blinded by folly, has brought you to this state and drunk the supreme poison by crossing your path today?” He continued, his voice thunderous, “You possess strength and valor, able to assume any form and travel wherever you wish. Who has reduced you to this, as if you had encountered Death himself? Who among the gods, the Gandharvas, the spirits, or the great sages could possibly have the power to injure you so? I see no one in all the worlds who would dare to harm me—not even among the immortals, not even Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt!” Khara’s rage boiled over as he vowed, “Today I will end the life of whoever did this, piercing him with my arrows as a swan draws milk from water. Whose blood, foaming and gushing from his vital points when struck by my arrows in battle, will the earth thirst to drink? Whose body, felled by me, will the vultures joyfully tear apart, devouring the flesh from his limbs? Neither gods nor Gandharvas, nor spirits nor rākṣasas, will be able to save that wretch from me in the great battle that is to come. Now that you have regained your senses, tell me: who overcame you in the forest and brought you to such misery?” Hearing her brother’s words, especially as he seethed with fury, Śūrpaṇakhā, her eyes brimming with tears, began to speak. “Two young men I saw,” she said, “handsome, radiant, strong, with eyes like lotuses, clad in garments of bark and black antelope skin. They live on fruits and roots, self-controlled, ascetic, devoted to chastity. They are the sons of Daśaratha, the brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. They resemble the king of the Gandharvas, bearing royal marks, but whether they are gods or demons, I cannot tell.” She continued, “With them was a young woman, beautiful in form, adorned with every ornament, slender-waisted, standing between the two. Because of her, both of those brothers together have brought me to this wretched state, as if I were helpless and alone.” Her voice trembling with longing and rage, Śūrpaṇakhā pleaded, “This is my first desire: let it be fulfilled by you—let me drink the blood of those two in battle!” As she spoke, Khara’s anger reached its peak. He summoned fourteen mighty rākṣasas, fierce as the end of time, and commanded them, “Two men, armed with weapons and clad in bark and black antelope skin, have entered the dreadful Daṇḍaka forest with a woman. Go, slay those two and that wicked woman, then return. My sister shall drink their blood for me. This is her wish—let it be fulfilled quickly! Overpower them with your own might. When you have slain those brothers in battle, this one, delighted and joyful, will drink their blood on the field.” Thus commanded, the fourteen rākṣasas, accompanied by Śūrpaṇakhā, set out like clouds driven by a stormy wind. Śūrpaṇakhā led them swiftly to Rāghava’s hermitage, where she pointed out the two brothers and Sītā to the rākṣasas. There, the rākṣasas beheld Rāma, of great strength, seated in his leaf-hut, attended by Sītā and by Lakṣmaṇa. Seeing Śūrpaṇakhā arrive with the fierce rākṣasas, the illustrious Rāghava spoke to his brother, blazing with energy, “Wait a moment, Saumitri. Stay close to Sītā. I will destroy those who have come upon this path.” Lakṣmaṇa, honoring Rāma’s words, replied, “So be it.” Rāma, righteous by nature, took up his great bow adorned with gold, strung it, and addressed the demons. “We are the sons of Daśaratha, the brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. We have entered the difficult Daṇḍaka forest together with Sītā. We live on fruits and roots, disciplined, ascetic, observing celibacy, dwelling here—why do you harm us? Armed with bow and arrows, I have come at the command of the sages to slay you evil-hearted ones who commit outrages in this great conflict. Remain here if you wish, but do not retreat. If you value your lives, depart from here, O night-dwellers.” But the fourteen rākṣasas, murderers of Brahmins, brandishing their spears, were enraged at his words. With bloodshot eyes, they glared at Rāma, whose own eyes blazed with righteous anger. They spoke harshly, their voices mocking yet delighted by his valor, “By provoking the wrath of our master Khara, who is of great might, you alone will lose your life—slain by us in battle this very moment. What power do you have, alone, to stand before many in the midst of battle, let alone to fight us in this conflict?” So the stage was set for a fierce and fateful encounter in the heart of the Daṇḍaka forest.