In the heart of the Daṇḍaka forest, Rāma stood before the Rākṣasa Khara, his gaze unwavering and his voice steady. He rebuked Khara for the atrocities committed: “You have dwelled in this sacred forest and slain ascetics devoted to righteousness, O Rākṣasa. What possible fruit do you hope to gain by killing these noble souls? Those who commit cruel and evil deeds, hated by the world, do not retain their power for long—just as trees with withered roots cannot endure. “Surely, the doer of evil must one day reap the dreadful fruit of his actions, just as a tree bears its flowers in due season. The results of evil deeds come swiftly in this world, O night-wanderer, just as food laced with poison reveals its effect after being consumed. For those who inflict terrible harm upon the world, I have been sent by the king himself to end your life, O night-stalker. “Today, my arrows, adorned with gold, will pierce and tear you apart, like serpents bursting from an anthill. Those righteous ones whom you have devoured in this forest—today, when you fall in battle, you shall follow them, along with your army. Let the great sages witness your defeat by my arrows—those whom you killed, now dwelling in celestial abodes, will see you cast into hell. “Strike as you wish, make every effort, O disgrace of your lineage. Today, I will bring down your head as easily as a palm fruit falls to the ground.” Hearing these words, Khara’s eyes reddened with fury. Though his heart burned with anger, he laughed and replied, “Having slain only ordinary Rākṣasas in battle, O son of Daśaratha, do you praise yourself for a deed unworthy of praise? The truly valiant and powerful, the foremost among men, do not boast—even if they are exceedingly proud of their might. “But ordinary, undisciplined men, the disgrace of the warrior class, boast meaninglessly in this world, just as you boast, Rāma. What hero, proclaiming his lineage, praises himself in battle—especially when death approaches and no one has asked? In any case, your boasting reveals your pettiness, like gold that is only plated, or kusa grass scorched by fire. “Yet you do not see me here, mace in hand, unshakable as a mountain veined with ores. With this mace, I am fully capable of taking your life in battle, like Death himself with his noose, ready to destroy even the three worlds. There is much I could say to you, but I will not—the sun is setting, and delay only hinders battle. Fourteen thousand Rākṣasas have fallen by your hand; today, by your destruction, I will wipe away their tears.” With these words, Khara, consumed by wrath, hurled his mighty, blazing mace at Rāma. The weapon, shining like a thunderbolt, tore through the air, burning trees and bushes to ashes as it sped toward its target. But Rāma, seeing the deadly mace rushing down like the very noose of death, shattered it mid-air with a volley of arrows, breaking it into many pieces. The fragments fell to the earth like a serpent struck down by spells and herbs. Now, listen to the thirtieth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Aranya Kāṇḍa. Rāma, devoted to righteousness, smiled as he watched the shattered mace fall. He spoke heated words to Khara: “So, O vile Rākṣasa, this is the full measure of your strength, now revealed. You are weaker than I, yet you roar in vain. Your mace, pierced by my arrows, lies on the ground—your boastful confidence destroyed. Your words about wiping away the tears of the slain Rākṣasas are empty; you cannot fulfill them. “I will take your life, you base, deceitful Rākṣasa, just as Garuḍa takes the nectar. Today, the earth will drink your blood, foaming and bubbling, as my arrows tear your throat. Covered in dust, your arms fallen limp, you will sleep on the ground, embracing it like a beloved woman who is hard to attain. When you, defiler of Rākṣasas, lie in this deep sleep, the forests of Daṇḍaka will become a refuge for those seeking safety. “When you are slain by my arrows at Janasthāna, the sages will roam the forest freely, without fear. Today, the Rākṣasīs, their faces wet with tears, bereft of kin, miserable and terrified, will flee in panic. Today, your wives—women of worthy families—will taste grief and be left without purpose. O cruel-natured, base-souled, constant thorn to the Brāhmaṇas, because of you, the sages offer oblations into the fire with suspicion and fear.” As Rāma spoke thus, his anger blazing in the forest, Khara rebuked him in a harsh voice, thick with rage: “You are deeply arrogant and fearless even in danger; thus you speak words both fitting and unfitting, unaware that you are already in the grip of death. Men ensnared by the noose of Time lose their senses and cannot distinguish what should or should not be done.” Having spoken thus, his brow furrowed, the night-stalker Khara glanced about and saw a great śāla tree standing nearby.