Rāma stood firm on the battlefield, his bow singing as he released arrows that found their mark with unerring precision. The furious rākṣasas, armed with spears and pikes, surged against him in a wave of wrath, but Rāma’s shafts pierced their vital points, felling them one after another. In mere moments, the swift warriors lay lifeless upon the earth, their strength no match for Rāma’s prowess. Witnessing this astonishing feat, I was overcome with terror—my heart seized by immense fear at the sight of such power. Shaken, agitated, and filled with despair, I found myself unable to escape the shadow of dread. O night-wanderer, I have come to you again for refuge, for everywhere I turn, I see only danger. I am submerged in a vast ocean of grief, inhabited by crocodiles of despair and lashed by waves of terror. Why do you not reach out to rescue me from these depths? All those flesh-eating rākṣasas who rushed to my aid now lie struck down, felled by Rāma’s sharp arrows. If you have any compassion for me, or for the rākṣasas who have perished, and if you possess any strength or power to stand against Rāma, O night-wanderer—then act! Strike down this thorn in the side of the demons of Dandaka forest. If you do not kill Rāma, the destroyer of enemies, today, I will abandon my life before your eyes, for I judge that you are powerless to face him in battle. Even with your forces, you cannot stand against him in the great war. You claim the title of hero, but your valor is only a hollow boast. Depart swiftly from Janasthāna with your kin; otherwise, fight and kill those two men in battle, or you will bring disgrace upon your lineage. You are unable to slay Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—what sort of existence is this, lacking strength and possessing so little power? Overcome by Rāma’s energy, you will soon perish, for Rāma, son of Daśaratha, is endowed with a power beyond compare. Beside her brother, grief-stricken and unconscious, I struck my belly with my hands and wept, overwhelmed by intense sorrow. Thus begins the twenty-second chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Provoked by my desperate words, the warrior Khara spoke among the assembled demons, his words harsher even than his own nature. “This anger of mine, born from your insult, is unmatched; it cannot be contained, like the raging salt sea. I do not regard Rāma as powerful—a mere mortal whose days are numbered. Today, he will lose his life by his own folly. “Dry your tears and let go of your agitation; I will send Rāma and his brother to the abode of Yama. Today, you shall drink the hot blood of Rāma, struck down by my axe as he lies weak upon the earth, O demoness.” Hearing Khara’s fierce declaration, my sorrow turned to delight; in my folly, I praised my brother Khara, foremost among the demons. Having been harshly addressed by me before, and now again praised, Khara turned to Dūṣaṇa, his general. “Fourteen thousand demons, fierce and relentless in battle, follow my command,” Khara said. “They are dark as rain clouds, roaming the world to do harm, and are fully prepared. Assemble all these demons, gentle one. Quickly bring me my chariot, along with bows, arrows of every kind, swords, and sharp spears. I wish to lead the charge myself, for the destruction of that unruly Rāma, who is skilled in battle, joined by the great-souled Paulastyas.” As Khara gave these orders, Dūṣaṇa prepared for him a splendid chariot, radiant as the sun and yoked with dappled steeds. This chariot shone like the peak of Mount Meru, adorned with refined gold, golden wheels, and a yoke set with cat’s-eye gems. Its panels were decorated with images of fish, flowers, trees, mountains, golden moons and suns, auspicious flocks of birds, and stars. Banners and swords adorned it, bells chimed from its sides, and it was always yoked with the finest horses. In his wrath, Khara mounted this chariot. Surveying his formidable army—bristling with chariots, armor, weapons, and banners—Khara commanded all the rākṣasas, “Set out!” to Dūṣaṇa. The rākṣasa army, terrifying in their armor and bearing a multitude of weapons, departed from Janasthāna, roaring loudly and moving with great speed. They brandished clubs, spears, tridents, sharp axes, swords, and wheels, gleaming with maces and javelins. Lances, dreadful iron bars, enormous bows, pestles, and thunderbolts filled their hands—an awe-inspiring sight. Thus, fourteen thousand fearsome rākṣasas, devoted to Khara’s will, set out from Janasthāna. As they rushed forward, Khara’s chariot followed just behind. At his urging, the sound of Khara’s chariot filled all directions, echoing through the land. His anger blazing, voice harsh, Khara hastened for the destruction of his enemy, like Death itself approaching. He shouted at his charioteer, his roar like a thundercloud hurling stones. Now begins the twenty-third chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. As that dreadful and inauspicious army set out, a terrible and tumultuous rain of blood, colored like a donkey, poured down upon them. The swift horses yoked to Khara’s chariot collapsed by chance on the royal road, in a region strewn with flowers.