खरेण सह रामस्य घोरं युद्धम्

At the end of the last sarga Khara had turned back his fleeing rākṣasas and rushed at Rāma himself. Now the poet first lays bare the fear inside him. When Khara saw Dūṣaṇa slain in battle along with Triśiras, and saw what Rāma could do, even he was afraid. That rākṣasa army had seemed irresistible, immensely strong, yet Rāma alone had destroyed it, and Dūṣaṇa and Triśiras with it; looking on at a host most of which lay dead, Khara came at Rāma in dejection, as Namuci once came at Indra. The comparison points the way: Namuci too charged at Indra and was killed in the end, so the simile itself foretells Khara's fate. And the word "dejected" matters. Khara fights not in anger but with his heart gone out of him, and that is the first sign of defeat. Drawing his powerful bow, he hurled at Rāma iron shafts that feed on blood, like angry venomous serpents. Twanging his bowstring again and again and displaying the weapon-craft he had been taught, he ranged the field in his chariot, tracing his paths with arrows; the poet makes clear that he fought not only by strength but by trained skill. The great chariot-warrior filled every quarter and every point between with his arrows, and seeing this Rāma too took up his own great bow. The passage traces Khara's state of mind finely. Earlier he had gone forward in sheer arrogance; now there was fear, then dejection, then anger once more, and these shifts reveal his inner turmoil. Still he did not turn back, for such was the rākṣasa nature. Even his weapons had changed: now he used iron shafts said to feed on blood, because they pierce the body and seem to drink it. The twanging string, the display of weapons, the paths traced across the field all show Khara as a trained and formidable warrior, and that makes Rāma's victory the greater.

With arrows hard to bear, like fires throwing off sparks, Khara left no gap in the sky, as a rain-cloud leaves none with its showers. With the sharp arrows loosed by Khara and by Rāma, the whole sky became no sky at all, thick with arrows on every side; the poet likes such a paradox, the sky itself turned into something that was no longer sky. Veiled in the net of arrows, the sun gave no light, while the two fought on in their fury to kill each other. Then Khara struck Rāma with arrows of every kind, hollow shafts, iron shafts, sharp-pointed and barbed, as men strike a great elephant with goads, an image that shows how massive and how enduring his opponent was. All beings saw that rākṣasa standing firm on his chariot, bow in hand, like Death with his noose. But Khara thought that Rāma was worn out, Rāma who had slain that whole army and stood firm in his manhood, a being of great might. It was a grave misjudgement, and it settles the outcome, for whoever underrates his opponent is already beaten. Though Khara moved with a lion's stride and was valiant as a lion, Rāma was no more shaken at the sight of him than a lion is shaken by a small deer. In this passage the scene of battle widens step by step: first the two men's showers of arrows, then the sky covered over, then the sun itself hidden, so that the duel of two men seems to fill the whole world. The words "in their fury to kill each other" show an equal hatred on both sides; here no one runs. Khara is seen in two ways: to all creatures he looked like Death with his noose, while to himself he seemed the victor, and this double view gives the scene a dramatic edge. His delusion is also pitiable. He thought Rāma exhausted, when Rāma, after slaying fourteen thousand, stood there unwearied.

Then Khara drove at Rāma in his great chariot bright as the sun, like a moth flying into a flame; as before, the image tells us that one who throws himself into the fire has no one but himself to blame. Showing the quickness of his hand, Khara cut through the great hero's bow at the grip, with the arrow still on it. This was Khara's one success, and the poet does not hide it: Vālmīki never hesitates to grant an enemy his skill. In a rage he took seven more arrows, bright as Indra's thunderbolt, and drove them into Rāma's vital parts. Then he tormented Rāma, whose strength had no equal, with a thousand arrows and roared aloud across the field. Struck by those well-jointed arrows, Rāma's armour, bright as the sun, fell to the ground. Pierced with arrows in every limb, filled with anger, Rāghava shone on the battlefield like a blazing fire without smoke: losing his armour did not dim the hero's splendour but made it shine the more. Then Rāma, destroyer of his foes, gave a deep resounding roar and strung another great bow to put an end to his enemy. It was the mighty bow of Viṣṇu that the great seer Agastya had given him, and raising that finest of bows he charged at Khara. The divine bow received earlier is used here for the first time, and its appearance marks the decisive moment of the fight. For the first time, too, Rāma is hurt: his bow is cut, his armour falls, his body is stuck with arrows. The poet describes this on purpose, for if the hero won unscathed the battle would lose its savour. Yet after every wound his brilliance only grows, as the image of the smokeless fire makes plain. By recalling Agastya's gift the poet also keeps the story joined to what came before, and the words "to put an end to his enemy" leave no doubt: from here on there would be no more fighting, only the end.

Then Rāma in high fury cut down Khara's banner with gold-nocked arrows with well-set joints. The beautiful golden banner, shattered into many pieces, fell to the earth like the sun coming down at the gods' command. The fall of the banner is the traditional sign of an army's defeat, and so the poet describes it first. Khara in his anger pierced Rāma's limbs with four arrows and, knowing where the vital spots lay, struck him in the heart, as men strike an elephant with javelins. Wounded by the many arrows from Khara's bow, his body wet with blood, Rāma grew fiercely angry. That best of bowmen, the supreme archer, gripped his bow in the great battle and loosed six well-aimed arrows: one struck Khara on the head, two on the arms, and three crescent-headed shafts hit him full in the chest. After that the blazing hero in his wrath shot thirteen iron arrows, bright as the sun and whetted on stone, and the poet tells us what each one did. With one he cut the chariot's yoke, with four the four dappled horses, with the sixth the head of Khara's charioteer; with three he cut the chariot's triple shaft, with two its axle, and with the twelfth Khara's bow with the arrow on it. Having cut it with a shaft like a thunderbolt, Rāghava, Indra's equal, as though laughing, pierced Khara himself with the thirteenth. His bow shattered, his chariot gone, his horses and charioteer dead, Khara leapt down with a mace in his hand and stood on the ground. Seeing that deed of Rāma the great warrior, the gods and the great seers, gathered in their sky-borne chariots, joined their palms in delight and honoured him. So the sarga ends, but Khara is still alive, standing on the ground with his mace, and the last combat is left for the next sarga. The counting of arrows is especially striking here, six and then thirteen, with the work of each spelled out. It is not mere ornament: it shows how sure Rāma's aim was and how exact, almost arithmetical, his plan of battle. The words "as though laughing" reveal his nature: he destroys not in rage but in perfect composure. The honour paid by gods and seers at the end gives the sarga its moral verdict; the very seers Khara had tormented now stand in their sky-chariots with joined palms. Yet Khara is not dead, and so the poet draws the listener on to the next sarga.