रामेण राक्षससैन्यस्य संहारः

In the previous sarga Rāma had put on his armour and raised his bow for battle, and the forest deities had trembled at the sight of his wrath. Now the story enters the battlefield itself. Khara came up to the hermitage with his vanguard and saw Rāma, the destroyer of enemies, standing angry with his bow braced. At the sight of him he raised his own strung bow, which twanged harshly, and ordered his charioteer: ‘Drive at Rāma!’ The poet hints at Khara's recklessness: seeing Rāma, he did not pause for a moment but wanted to attack at once. At his command the charioteer urged the horses to the very spot where mighty-armed Rāma stood alone, shaking his bow. The word ‘alone’ carries the whole meaning of the sarga — one man in battle against fourteen thousand rākṣasas. Seeing Khara rush onto the field, the night-rangers on every side raised a great roar and closed around him, his ministers standing at his side to guard him. In the midst of those rākṣasas Khara in his chariot shone like the red planet Mars risen among the stars — an image with two meanings, showing his splendour and, since the red planet is an evil omen, also hinting at his coming ruin.

Then Khara struck Rāma of matchless strength with a thousand arrows and roared aloud on the field, and the commander's roar was like a signal to the whole army. At once all the night-rangers in fury rained weapons of every kind on the unconquerable Rāma of the terrible bow; with iron mallets, pikes, barbed lances, swords and axes the raging rākṣasas struck at the hero. The poet lists the weapons with a purpose: the weapons were many, but the target was one. Huge-bodied, immensely strong and dark as thunderclouds, they charged Kākutstha with chariots and horses, and others came on elephants like mountain peaks, eager to kill him. As great clouds pour down torrents on the king of mountains, so the rākṣasa hosts poured showers of arrows on Rāma — and the image implies that however heavy the rain, the great mountain is not moved. Surrounded by all those grim-faced rākṣasas, Rāma looked like Mahādeva surrounded by the hosts of his attendants on the holy days; the comparison shows him unshaken as a god amid his foes, and, since the god is Śiva, hints at his power to destroy. Note too that the rākṣasas attacked not in one way but on foot, on horseback, in chariots and on elephants all at once — the whole fourfold army, which shows their strength in numbers — and yet all of it was aimed at one man on foot. By that contrast the poet praises Rāma's greatness indirectly, first fixing in the reader's heart the steadiness of the lone hero before describing his counterstroke.

All the weapons the rākṣasas loosed, Rāghava caught with his own arrows, as the ocean takes in the floods of the rivers — a deep image, for the ocean does not stop the rivers but swallows them, and so Rāma swallowed their rain of weapons with his arrows instead of retreating. Though his limbs were torn by their terrible weapons, he did not flinch, standing unshaken like a great mountain struck by many blazing thunderbolts. Pierced in every limb and smeared with blood, he looked like the sun veiled in the clouds of evening: even covered in blood his radiance was not hidden, but glowed the redder, as at sunset. Seeing him alone, surrounded by so many thousands, the gods, gandharvas, siddhas and great seers grew downcast — their dismay itself a sign of his greatness, for they did not grieve so for others; they did not fear his defeat but could not bear to see him suffer. Then Rāma in high fury bent his bow into a circle and loosed sharp arrows by the hundred and the thousand, hard to ward off, hard to bear, like the noose of Death. He let fly, as though in play, shafts feathered with heron plumes and adorned with gold — light, beautiful and deadly all at once. Released as if in play, the arrows entered the enemy's ranks and took the rākṣasas' lives like nooses fashioned by Time. Piercing the rākṣasas' bodies, the blood-soaked arrows rose into the sky and shone like blazing fire, and countless fearsome arrows flew from the circle of his bow, carrying off the lives of the rākṣasas. The poet uses ‘as though in play’ deliberately: what was doomsday for the rākṣasas was sport for Rāma, and that one phrase shows the gulf between their strengths. In this passage the poet shows three stages in turn — Rāma's endurance, then his splendour, and finally his counterattack — so that the battle is not a mere tally of weapons but the gradual unfolding of a hero's character.

With those arrows Rāma cut through bows, the tops of banners, shields and coats of mail, and in the battle he cut off, by the hundred and the thousand, arms still wearing bracelets and thighs like elephants' trunks — an image of the rākṣasas' bulk, and so of the keenness of the arrows that cut them. Loosed from the string, Rāma's arrows cut and shattered horses in golden harness yoked to chariots, together with their drivers, elephants with their riders, and horsemen with their mounts, and killing the foot-soldiers they sent them to the house of Yama; so every limb of the fourfold army was destroyed by one hero. Torn by arrows of every kind — tubular shafts, iron shafts, sharp-pointed and barbed — the night-rangers set up a dreadful cry of pain. Tormented by arrows that pierced their vitals, that army found no ease, like a dry forest burning, an image of swift and total destruction. Some rākṣasa heroes of fearful strength, in extreme rage, hurled lances, pikes and axes at Rāma, but the valiant, mighty-armed hero warded off their weapons with his arrows, took their lives and cut through their necks. With heads struck off and shields and bows cut through, they fell to the ground like trees flung down by the wind of Garuḍa's wings — an image of the suddenness of their fall, not merely of their number. Those who were left, dejected and wounded, ran to Khara himself for shelter; their master's protection was the only hope they had left. The destruction grows step by step: first weapons are cut, then limbs, then mounts, and at last every part of the army. The rākṣasas who had come roaring like lions now cried out in pain — a complete reversal. And there is pathos in their seeking shelter: those who had terrified everyone now looked for refuge, though their refuge, Khara, was as mortal as they, as the following sargas will show. So the poet shows their defeat not only outwardly but within.

Then Dūṣaṇa took up his bow, rallied them all, and in great fury rushed at the angry Rāma like Death enraged; an army that has broken rallies again when its commander comes, as is the way of things. Made fearless by Dūṣaṇa's protection, they all turned back and charged Rāma once more, armed now with sāl trees, palms and rocks — a change of weapons that hints their arms were running out. Those mighty warriors with pikes, mallets and nooses in their hands poured out showers of arrows and weapons, of trees and of stones. The battle between Rāma and the rākṣasas became wondrous, tumultuous, hair-raising and utterly terrible, and in their rage they attacked Rāghava again and again from every side. Seeing every quarter and direction filled with rākṣasas and himself covered with their showers of arrows, the mighty Rāma gave a fearful shout — the declaration of his resolve — and, taking up a weapon of surpassing brilliance, loosed the Gāndharva missile upon the rākṣasas. Here a divine weapon is used for the first time, because ordinary arrows could not hold back so vast a host. Thousands of arrows then poured from the circle of his bow and filled all ten directions. Wounded by his shafts, the rākṣasas could not see him take up his arrows or loose them; they saw only the bow being drawn — so swift were his hands. With that one verse the poet shows a skill beyond the human, which even the enemy's eyes could not follow. A darkness of arrows covered the sky and the sun, and Rāma stood motionless in one place, as though pouring out arrows without pause. So begins the second phase of the battle: before, the rākṣasas had fought on their own strength and broken; now they took heart from their leader. And Rāma's standing in one place reveals his way of fighting — he does not run here and there, nor mount a chariot, but stands firm on foot and fills every quarter with arrows; that steadiness is the outward sign of his confidence, and the gods will praise it.

The earth was strewn with rākṣasas struck down, falling and fallen all at the same moment; the repeated ‘at the same moment’ makes plain that the slaughter was simultaneous. Slain, fallen, spent, cut, cleft and torn apart, the rākṣasas lay in thousands here and there. The ground was covered with heads still in their turbans, with arms still wearing armlets, with severed thighs and arms, with ornaments of every kind, with horses and great elephants, with chariots shattered again and again, with yak-tail whisks, fans, parasols and banners of many kinds, with pikes and halberds broken by Rāma's arrows, swords hacked to pieces, lances and axes scattered about, crushed rocks and brightly worked arrows broken again and again, until that wide battlefield became a place of terror. The poet builds this as one long, unbroken sentence, not separate statements but a single canvas on which the eye finds no resting place, setting the whole battlefield before the reader without a pause. So at the end of the heroic mood comes a touch of the gruesome, as often in Vālmīki's battle scenes. Seeing all of them slain, the rākṣasas who remained were utterly stricken and could not even move towards Rāma, conqueror of his enemies' cities. So the sarga ends with the victory of one man and the terror of thousands; in the next, Dūṣaṇa himself comes forward and is slain.