Khara, seething with rage, confronted Rama on the battlefield and spoke with scorn, “O son of Dasharatha, you boast of slaying ordinary rakshasas in battle—how can you praise yourself for a deed so unworthy of praise? Truly valiant and powerful men, the foremost among warriors, do not boast at all, even if they are proud of their might. It is only the undisciplined and ordinary, the disgrace of the warrior class, who boast meaninglessly in this world—just as you do, Rama. What true hero, proud of his lineage, would praise himself in the midst of battle, especially when death approaches and without being asked?” Khara’s voice grew sharper as he continued, “Your boasting only reveals your pettiness, like gold that is merely plated over or kusa grass heated by fire. You do not even see me standing here, mace in hand—unshakable as a mountain covered 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 more I could say to you, but I will not—sunset is near, and further delay would only hinder our battle. Fourteen thousand rakshasas have been slain by you; today, by your destruction, I will wipe away their tears.” With these words, his anger blazing, Khara hurled his massive, best mace at Rama. It shone like a thunderbolt as it flew, reducing trees and bushes to ashes along its path. Rama saw the great mace rushing toward him, like the noose of death itself. Unshaken, he shattered it in mid-air with a volley of arrows, breaking it into many pieces. The ruined mace fell to the earth, pierced and broken, like a serpent struck down by spells and herbs. Now begins the thirtieth sarga of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, Aranya Kanda. Rama, devoted to righteousness, smiled as he shattered the mace and spoke these heated words: “This, O vile rakshasa, is the full extent of your strength, now revealed. You are weaker than I, yet you roar in vain. Your mace, pierced by my arrows, has fallen to the ground—destroying your boastful confidence. And what you said about wiping the tears of the slain rakshasas, claiming you would do so, is also a falsehood. I will take your life, you base, low-minded, 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 on the ground, embracing it as one would a beloved woman hard to attain. When you, defiler of rakshasas, lie in deep sleep, these Dandaka forests will become a refuge for those seeking shelter. When you are slain by my arrows at Janasthana, the sages will roam the forest everywhere, free from fear. Today, the rakshasis, their faces wet with tears, bereft of kin, miserable and fearful, will flee in terror. Today, those wives of worthy families, whose husband you are, will taste grief and be left without purpose. O cruel-natured, base-souled, constant thorn to the brahmanas, because of you the sages, in fear, offer oblations into the fire with suspicion.” As Rama spoke thus, his words burning with fury, Khara rebuked him in a harsh, angry voice, “You are deeply arrogant and fearless even in danger; thus you speak what should and should not be spoken, unaware that you are in the grip of death. Those men who are ensnared by the noose of Time lose their senses and cannot distinguish what should or should not be done.” Having said this, furrowing his brow, Khara searched the battlefield for a weapon. He saw a great shala tree nearby, seized it with both arms, and, biting his lips in fury, uprooted it. Roaring mightily, he hurled the massive tree at Rama, shouting, “You are slain!” Rama, undaunted, cut down the mass of arrows and the oncoming tree with his own shafts, summoning intense wrath to slay Khara. Sweating and with eyes reddened by anger, Rama pierced Khara with a thousand arrows. From between the wounds, frothy blood streamed, pouring from Khara like water from a mountain spring. Stricken by Rama’s arrows, Khara was rendered helpless, but maddened by the scent of his own blood, he charged at Rama again, weapons at the ready. As the furious, blood-soaked Khara rushed in, Rama, quick and agile, stepped back two or three paces. Then Rama took up a blazing arrow, like a second staff of Brahma, to bring Khara down. This mighty arrow, given by the wise lord of the gods, Maghavan, was fitted to Rama’s bow. With a thunderous sound, Rama released it toward Khara. The arrow struck Khara squarely in the chest as he drew his own bow, sealing the fate of the mighty rakshasa.