As Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana journeyed through the daunting Daṇḍaka forest, a looming threat approached. Rama, ever vigilant and aware of himself, turned to his brother and said, “Wait here for a moment, Saumitri, stay close to Sita. I will destroy those who have come upon this path.” Lakshmana, honoring Rama’s command, replied, “So be it,” and stood by Sita, ready as ever. Rama, righteous and resolute, took up his great bow adorned with gold and strung it firmly. Facing the demons before him, he declared, “We are the sons of Daśaratha—Rama and Lakshmana—who have entered the difficult Daṇḍaka forest with Sita. We live here eating fruits and roots, disciplined, ascetic, observing celibacy. Why do you harm us, who dwell peacefully in this forest?” He continued, “Armed with bow and arrows, I have come by the command of the sages to slay you evil-hearted ones who commit outrages in this great conflict. Remain here content; do not retreat. If you value your lives, depart from here, O night-dwellers.” The fourteen rākṣasas, murderers of Brahmins, armed with spears, heard Rama’s words and replied in great anger. Their eyes bloodshot and terrible, gazing fiercely at Rama—whose own eyes now blazed—they spoke harshly, their voices laced with mocking sweetness, delighted by the prospect of battle. “By provoking the wrath of our master Khara, 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? With these clubs, spears, and pikes hurled by our arms, you will lose your life, your strength, and the bow gripped in your hand.” With these words, the fourteen enraged rākṣasas, weapons and swords raised, charged straight at Rama. They hurled their spears at Rāghava, who stood unconquerable; all fourteen spears flew toward him. But Rama, with arrows adorned with gold, cut them all down in an instant. Then, the mighty one took up nārāca arrows, shining like the sun, and, extremely enraged, seized fourteen sharp, stone-tipped arrows. Drawing his bow, he aimed at the demons. The rākṣasas fell to the ground like serpents tumbling from anthills, their hearts shattered, lying lifeless on the earth like trees with roots severed. Bathed in blood, deformed and lifeless, they lay strewn across the ground. Witnessing their fall, the demoness Śūrpaṇakhā was seized by wrath. Blood drying upon her, she approached her brother Khara, only to collapse again, afflicted and powerless, like a vine deprived of its sap. Distressed with grief, she let out a great cry near her brother, her trembling voice shedding tears, her face pale and sorrowful. Having fled the scene, Śūrpaṇakhā then told her brother Khara everything—how the demons had been struck down in battle, how Rama had destroyed all the rākṣasas sent to avenge her. And now begins the twenty-first sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakaṇḍa. Seeing Śūrpaṇakhā fallen again before him, Khara, enraged, spoke to her clearly, for she had come seeking help. “Those heroic, flesh-eating rākṣasas have been sent by me for your sake—why do you weep again? They are always devoted, loyal, and well-disposed toward me; if they are being killed, they would not fail to obey my command. What is this? I wish to hear the reason for which you cry out ‘Alas, protector!’ and writhe on the ground like a snake. Why do you lament as one without a protector, when I am here? Rise, rise! Cast off this weakness and do not be so faint-hearted.” Comforted by her formidable brother, Śūrpaṇakhā wiped her tear-filled eyes and spoke. “Now I have come to you, my ears and nose cut off, drenched in streams of blood, and you have comforted me. You sent those fourteen heroic rākṣasas, armed, to kill the dreadful Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa for my sake. But all of them, furious and armed with spears and pikes, were slain in battle by Rama with arrows that pierce the vital points. Seeing those swift warriors fall to the ground in a moment, and Rama’s great deed, I was seized by immense fear. Thus I am frightened, agitated, and despondent, O night-wanderer; seeing danger everywhere, I have come to you again for refuge.” She continued, “I am submerged in the vast ocean of grief, inhabited by crocodiles of despair and waves of terror—why do you not rescue me? Those flesh-eating rākṣasas who came to my aid have been struck down on the ground by Rama with sharp arrows. If you have any compassion for me, or for those rākṣasas, and if you have strength or power against Rama, O night-wanderer—strike down the thorn of the demons dwelling in the Dandaka forest. If you do not kill Rama, the destroyer of enemies, today, I will abandon my life right before you, shameless one; in my judgment, you are not able to face Rama in battle. Even with your forces, you are not capable of standing face to face with him in the great war; you claim to be a hero, but you are not—your valor is falsely attributed. Depart swiftly from Janasthana with your kin; otherwise, kill the fools in battle, or you will bring disgrace upon your lineage.” Thus, the events unfolded, with Śūrpaṇakhā’s desperate plea echoing through the halls of Janasthana, urging her brother Khara to avenge the fallen and restore the honor of the rākṣasas.