When I saw those swift warriors—mighty rākṣasas—struck down in an instant by Rāma’s hand and lying lifeless upon the earth, a terrible fear seized my heart. The sight of Rāma’s astonishing power filled me with dread. Agitated and despondent, I wandered everywhere, seeing only danger, and so, O night-wanderer, I have come to you once more, seeking your protection. My soul is submerged in a vast ocean of grief—an ocean inhabited by the crocodiles of despair and lashed by the waves of terror. Why do you not rescue me, when I am drowning so helplessly? All those flesh-eating rākṣasas who came to my aid have been struck down by Rāma’s sharp arrows and now lie lifeless on the ground. If you feel any compassion for me or for those fallen rākṣasas, and if you possess any strength or power to oppose Rāma, then act now, O night-wanderer! Strike down this thorn in the side of the demons who dwell in the Dandaka forest. If you do not slay Rāma—the destroyer of his enemies—today, I shall abandon my life right here before your eyes, shameless one. In my judgment, you are not capable of facing Rāma in battle. Even with all your forces, you cannot stand against him in the great war. You claim to be a hero, but your valor is nothing but an empty boast. Leave Janasthāna at once with your kin, or else slay those two men—Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—in battle. Otherwise, you will bring disgrace upon your lineage. You are unable to defeat those two brothers; what purpose does your existence serve, lacking as you are in strength and power? Overcome by Rāma’s energy, you will soon meet your end, for Rāma, son of Daśaratha, is endowed with that very might. Beside her brother, grief-stricken and unconscious, she struck her own belly with her hands, weeping in the grip of intense sorrow. Now begins the twenty-second chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Thus provoked by Śūrpaṇakhā’s anguished words, the warrior Khara spoke among the assembled demons, his speech even harsher than his own fierce nature. “This anger that has arisen in me from your insult is beyond compare; it cannot be contained, like the surging ocean. I do not see Rāma as powerful—he is a mere mortal, his days numbered. Today, by his own misdeeds, he will lose his life. “Cease your tears and agitation. I will send Rāma and his brother to the abode of Yama. Today, you will drink the hot blood of Rāma, struck down by my axe as he lies weak upon the earth, O demoness.” Hearing these words from Khara’s lips, Śūrpaṇakhā was delighted, and, in her folly, once more praised her brother, foremost among the rākṣasas. Having been rebuked by her before and now again praised, Khara turned to his general, Dūṣaṇa. “Fourteen thousand fierce rākṣasas, relentless in battle, follow my command. They are dark as rain clouds, roaming the world and causing harm, fully prepared for war. Assemble all these warriors, gentle one. Quickly bring me my chariot, along with bows, arrows of every kind, swords, and sharp spears. “I wish to lead at the front, for the destruction of that unruly Rāma, skilled in battle, along with the great-souled Paulastyas.” As Khara spoke, Dūṣaṇa ordered a great chariot for him—a chariot shining like the sun, yoked with dappled steeds. It gleamed like the peak of Mount Meru, adorned with refined gold, golden wheels, and a yoke of cat’s-eye gems. Its surface was covered with images of fish, flowers, trees, mountains, golden moons and suns, auspicious birds in flocks, and stars. Banners and swords decorated it, and excellent bells hung from its sides. Always yoked with fine horses, Khara, burning with anger, mounted the chariot. Surveying the great army—chariots, armor, weapons, and banners—Khara commanded all the rākṣasas, “Set out!” Dūṣaṇa led the way. The rākṣasa army, terrifying in their armor, weapons, and banners, departed from Janasthāna, roaring and moving swiftly. They carried clubs, spears, tridents, sharp axes, swords, and wheels in their hands, shining with maces and javelins. Some bore lances, dreadful iron bars, mighty bows, pestles, and thunderbolts—all fearsome to behold. Fourteen thousand terrifying rākṣasas, devoted to Khara’s will, set forth from Janasthāna. As they rushed forward, Khara’s chariot followed a little behind. Urged on, the chariot of Khara, destroyer of enemies, filled all the quarters and intermediate directions with its thunderous sound. His anger greatly increased, Khara’s harsh voice rang out as he hastened for the destruction of his enemy, like Death itself. He shouted at his charioteer again, roaring like a mighty storm cloud hurling stones. Now begins the twenty-third chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. As that dreadful, inauspicious army set out, a terrible and tumultuous rain of blood, the color of a donkey, poured down upon them. The swift horses yoked to Khara’s chariot collapsed by chance on the royal road, in a place strewn with flowers. In the sky, a dark, blood-red circle—like a blazing wheel—appeared around the sun.