With the battlefield strewn with the fallen, Rama stood firm before Khara, his eyes alight with righteous fury. He addressed Khara with unwavering confidence, “Strike as you wish, O disgrace of your lineage. Make every effort. Today, I shall bring down your head as easily as one plucks a palm fruit.” Hearing these bold words, Khara’s eyes burned red with anger. Yet, even in his rage, he laughed and replied to Rama, his voice thick with scorn. “O son of Dasharatha, you boast of having slain mere ordinary rakshasas in battle. How can you praise yourself for such a deed, unworthy of any true acclaim? The truly valiant and powerful, the foremost among men, do not boast at all, even if they are proud of their might. Only the undisciplined, the disgrace of the warrior class, boast meaninglessly in this world, just as you do, Rama. What hero, proud of his lineage, would praise himself in battle—especially when death approaches and no one has even asked?” Khara’s words grew sharper. “Your boasting has only revealed your pettiness, Rama, like gold that is merely plated or kusa grass singed by fire. You do not even see me standing here, mace in hand, unshakable as a mountain veined with ore. With this mace, I am fully capable of taking your life in battle, just as Death himself, armed with his noose, is ready to destroy even the three worlds. I could say much more to you, but I will not—sunset approaches, and delay would only hinder our battle. Fourteen thousand rakshasas have fallen to your arrows; today, by your destruction, I will wipe away their tears.” Seething with anger, Khara hurled his mighty, blazing mace at Rama. It flew through the air like a thunderbolt, reducing trees and bushes to ashes as it sped toward its mark. Rama, seeing the deadly weapon hurtling toward him like the noose of death, quickly loosed his arrows. With perfect aim, he shattered the mace in midair, breaking it into many pieces. The fragments fell to the earth, their power spent, like a serpent struck down by the force of spells and herbs. Now begins the thirtieth sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranya Kanda. Having shattered the mace with his arrows, Rama, devoted to righteousness, smiled and spoke to Khara, his words burning with intensity. “This, O vile rakshasa, 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 broken on the ground—so too is your boastful confidence destroyed. You claimed you would wipe away the tears of the rakshasas I have slain, but your words are false. Today, I shall take your life, you base and deceitful rakshasa, just as Garuda seizes 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 upon the ground, embracing it as a man embraces a beloved woman hard to attain. When you, O defiler of rakshasas, lie in your final sleep, these Dandaka forests will become a refuge for all who seek shelter. When you are slain by my arrows at Janasthana, the sages will roam the forests freely, without fear. Today, the rakshasis—faces wet with tears, bereft of kin, miserable and afraid—will flee in terror. The wives of worthy families, whose husband you are, will be left to taste grief, their lives emptied of purpose. O cruel-natured, base-souled, constant thorn to the brahmanas, because of you, the sages have offered their fire-oblations with suspicion and fear.” As Rama spoke thus, his anger blazing in the forest, Khara rebuked him in a voice harsh and hoarse with rage. “You are deeply arrogant and fearless, even in the face of danger. Thus you speak what should and should not be spoken, unaware that you are already caught in the grip of death. Those ensnared by the noose of Time lose their senses, unable to distinguish what should or should not be done.” With his brow furrowed in fury, Khara looked around for a weapon. He spotted a great shala tree nearby and, biting his lips in rage, seized it with both arms. Roaring loudly, he wrenched it from the earth and hurled it at Rama, shouting, “You are slain!” Rama, valiant and resolute, swiftly cut down the mass of branches and leaves flying toward him, summoning all his wrath to bring down Khara in battle. Sweating, eyes reddened with anger, Rama pierced Khara with a thousand arrows. From between those shafts, frothy blood streamed from Khara, like water gushing from the clefts of a mountain. Stricken by Rama’s arrows, Khara was rendered helpless, yet maddened by the scent of his own blood, he rushed at Rama again, weapons raised, his fury undiminished. Rama, agile and quick, stepped back two or three paces as Khara, blood-soaked and wild, charged forward. Then, Rama took up a blazing arrow, radiant as the staff of Brahma himself, ready to end the battle and strike down Khara once and for all.