धूम्राक्षवधः

Seeing the rākṣasa Dhūmrākṣa of terrible valour coming out, all the monkeys roared with delight, eager for battle. A tumultuous fight broke out between monkeys and rākṣasas, striking at one another with terrible trees, spears and hammers. On every side the fierce monkeys were cut down by the rākṣasas, and the rākṣasas in turn were levelled with the ground by the monkeys' trees. The rākṣasas, in a great rage, pierced the monkeys with sharp, straight-flying arrows fletched with heron feathers, terrible to see; with dreadful maces, pattiśas and treacherous hammers, with fearsome iron bars and the tridents they gripped, they tore at the mighty monkeys. But the monkeys, their fury roused by pain and anger, fought as if they knew no fear. Their bodies pierced by arrows and split by spears, the monkey leaders seized trees and rocks, and, swift and terrible, roaring here and there, they crushed the heroic rākṣasas and shouted out their own names. The fight is described evenly on both sides; the poet gives the rākṣasas their valour as well as the monkeys. The rākṣasas' weapons are forged — arrows, maces, pattiśas, bars, tridents — while the monkeys' are nature's own, trees and rocks, as if civilisation and nature were at war. "Their fury roused by anger" is subtle: pain breeds anger, and anger breeds zeal. Calling out one's own name was part of the ancient code of war: the warrior challenged his foe aloud and upheld the honour of his clan. Pierced by arrows, the monkeys do not flee but seize trees — proof of their courage. The sarga continues from the end of the last: there Dhūmrākṣa saw the monkey army, here the monkeys see him. They begin the fight not in fear but with delight, because Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa are free. The heron feathers make the rākṣasas' arrows fly straight, and "levelled with the ground" shows them utterly felled. At first the poet shows the two sides evenly matched, so that the importance of Hanumān's intervention will stand out later.

With rocks of every kind and many-branched trees, a wonderful and terrible battle raged between monkeys and rākṣasas. Some rākṣasas were crushed by the triumphant monkeys, and some of those blood-drinkers vomited blood from their own mouths. Some had their sides torn open, some were heaped up under trees, some were ground to powder by rocks, some were torn apart by teeth. Some night-rangers were in distress, their banners crushed and broken, their swords knocked from their hands, their chariots shattered. The ground was strewn with lordly elephants huge as mountains, crushed by the forest-dwellers' mountain peaks, and with horses and their riders. The swift monkeys of terrible valour leapt up and leapt again and tore the rākṣasas' faces with their sharp claws, and the rākṣasas, their faces downcast and their hair dishevelled, dazed by the smell of blood, fell again and again to the ground. But other rākṣasas, furious and of terrible valour, rushed at the monkeys with slaps of their palms that struck like thunderbolts; swift as they were at striking others down, they were beaten down by the still swifter monkeys with fists, feet, teeth and trees. Here the horror of the battle is shown in full — the vomiting of blood, the sides torn open, bodies ground by rocks, flesh torn by teeth. "Blood-drinkers" is used with irony: those who drank others' blood now vomit their own. "Dazed by the smell of blood" is keen psychology, for the very smell of blood breeds fear. The monkeys "leaping up and leaping again" recall their nature as leapers, striking as they spring. The rākṣasas too fight bare-handed, and the battle turns from a fight with weapons into a fight hand to hand, until fists, feet and teeth are the only arms. The repeated "some... some..." shows how varied the fighting was, each rākṣasa falling in a different way, a common device in epic battle scenes. The destruction of their chariots, banners and swords signals the ruin of the rākṣasas' splendour, and there is a play in elephants "like mountains" crushed by "mountain peaks." The monkeys' claws are their weapons, tearing at the rākṣasas' faces. So the first part of the fight goes the monkeys' way, and that rouses Dhūmrākṣa's anger.

Seeing his army routed, Dhūmrākṣa, bull among rākṣasas, furious, began to slaughter the monkeys who were so eager to fight. Some monkeys, crushed by lances, streamed with blood; some, struck by hammers, fell to the ground. Some were crushed by iron bars, some torn by bhindipālas, some, crushed by pattiśas, reeled and lost their lives. Some forest-dwellers lay struck down on the ground, drenched in blood; some were routed and destroyed by the enraged rākṣasas. Some lay on their sides with their hearts split open; some were ripped by tridents, their entrails spilling out. That great and terrible battle, thronged with monkeys and rākṣasas, full of weapons and crowded with rocks and trees, was a splendid sight. With the sweet music of bowstrings for its lute-strings, gasps for its beat of time and low moans for its song, the battle seemed a concert of the gandharvas. And Dhūmrākṣa, bow in hand at the forefront of the battle, laughing, drove the monkeys off in every direction with showers of arrows. Here Dhūmrākṣa's prowess is shown: he is not merely proud but a real warrior, skilled with every weapon — lance, hammer, bar, bhindipāla, pattiśa, trident and bow. His fury is the answer to his army's defeat. The verse likening the battle to music is the jewel of the sarga: the bowstring sings sweetly like the string of a lute, the gasps of the wounded keep time, and the low moans are the song. The image cloaks even the horror of war in beauty, blending pity and terror. Dhūmrākṣa is laughing again, as he laughed when he set out in the previous sarga; this laugh is his last. Details such as the spilling entrails show war as it is — Vālmīki does not hide its suffering — and the monkeys' deaths are told as fully as the rākṣasas', for the poet is impartial; to be routed, too, is a form of defeat. Dhūmrākṣa's showers of arrows scatter the monkeys as Indrajit's had done in the earlier sargas — but facing him is Hanumān.

Seeing the army harried and distressed by Dhūmrākṣa, the son of the Wind, enraged, seized a huge rock and advanced. His eyes twice as red with anger, a match in valour for his father the Wind, he hurled the rock at Dhūmrākṣa's chariot. Seeing it falling on him, Dhūmrākṣa in alarm raised his mace, leapt swiftly from the chariot and stood on the ground. The rock crushed his chariot — wheels, pole, horses, banner, bow and all — and fell to the ground. Having shattered his chariot, Hanumān, son of the Wind, slaughtered the rākṣasas with trees, trunks and branches and all. Rākṣasas with their heads split open were bathed in blood, and others fell to the ground crushed by the trees. When he had routed the rākṣasa army, Hanumān took up a mountain peak and rushed at Dhūmrākṣa, and as he came on, the mighty Dhūmrākṣa raised his mace and, roaring, rushed at him. In the previous sarga Dhūmrākṣa went out to the western gate, where Hanumān stood, so their clash was inevitable. "A match for his father" recalls that Hanumān is the Wind's son, his speed as irresistible as the wind. The rock is described at length — wheels, pole, horses, banner, bow, all destroyed by a single blow. Dhūmrākṣa leaps from his chariot "in alarm": for the first time his laughter has turned to fear. Yet he does not flee; he raises his mace and charges head-on, the last proof of his courage. Hanumān's entry is the decisive moment, coming just when the army is in distress. His first blow aims not at the warrior but at his chariot, for a warrior without a chariot is weakened; then he destroys Dhūmrākṣa's troops, and only at last attacks the leader himself — sound tactics. His weapon is a mountain peak, for Hanumān can tear up even mountains, as he will later carry the mountain of herbs. Dhūmrākṣa charges roaring towards his death, his last show of pride, and the blood-bathed rākṣasas show how complete their defeat was.

In his rage Dhūmrākṣa brought his mace, studded with many spikes, down on Hanumān's head. But though that mace of terrible force struck him, the monkey who had the strength of the Wind paid no heed to the blow, and brought the mountain peak down on the middle of Dhūmrākṣa's head. Struck by the peak, every limb burst apart, Dhūmrākṣa fell suddenly to the ground like a crumbling mountain. Seeing Dhūmrākṣa dead, the surviving night-rangers, terrified and struck down by the monkeys, fled into Laṅkā. Having slain his enemies and set rivers of blood flowing, the great son of the Wind, weary from the slaughter of the foe, was filled with joy as the monkeys honoured him. Hanumān's valour shows in two ways here: in ignoring his enemy's blow, and in the decisiveness of his own. "Paying no heed to the blow" means that even the spiked mace could not hurt his body, hard as a thunderbolt. "Like a crumbling mountain" conveys both the size of Dhūmrākṣa's body and its utter destruction. The rivers of blood show how great the battle was, and the honour paid him by his comrades soothes his weariness — the praise of one's companions is a hero's best reward. With Dhūmrākṣa's death, the first of Rāvaṇa's commanders has fallen; in the next sarga Vajradaṃṣṭra will be sent out. And Hanumān's glory is established once more, as when he killed Prince Akṣa in the Sundara Kāṇḍa.