The Ramayana · 224 of 493

Araṇya Kānda (The Forest Book): Canto 30 — Khara’s Death

When Ráma, pride of Raghu’s race, Virtue’s dear son, had cleft the mace, Thus with superior smile the best Of chiefs the furious fiend addressed:

“Thou, worst of giant blood, at length Hast shown the utmost of thy strength, And forced by greater might to bow, Thy vaunting threats are idle now. My shafts have cut thy club in twain: Useless it lies upon the plain, And all thy pride and haughty trust Lie with it levelled in the dust. The words that thou hast said to-day, That thou wouldst wipe the tears away Of all the giants I have slain, My deeds shall render void and vain. Thou meanest of the giants’ breed, Evil in thought and word and deed, My hand shall take that life of thine As Garuḍ(476) seized the juice divine. Thou, rent by shafts, this day shalt die: Low on the ground thy corse shall lie, And bubbles from the cloven neck With froth and blood thy skin shall deck. With dust and mire all rudely dyed, Thy torn arms lying by thy side, While streams of blood each limb shall steep, Thou on earth’s breast shalt take thy sleep Like a fond lover when he strains The beauty whom at length he gains. Now when thy heavy eyelids close For ever in thy deep repose, Again shall Daṇḍak forest be Safe refuge for the devotee. Thou slain, and all thy race who held The realm of Janasthán expelled, Again shall happy hermits rove, Fearing no danger, through the grove. Within those bounds, their brethren slain, No giant shall this day remain, But all shall fly with many a tear And fearing, rid the saints of fear. This bitter day shall misery bring On all the race that calls thee king. Fierce as their lord, thy dames shall know, Bereft of joys, the taste of woe. Base, cruel wretch, of evil mind, Plaguer of Bráhmans and mankind, With trembling hands each devotee Feeds holy fires in dread of thee.”

Thus with wild fury unrepressed Raghu’s brave son the fiend addressed; And Khara, as his wrath grew high, Thus thundered forth his fierce reply:

“By senseless pride to madness wrought, By danger girt thou fearest naught, Nor heedest, numbered with the dead, What thou shouldst say and leave unsaid. When Fate’s tremendous coils enfold The captive in resistless hold, He knows not right from wrong, each sense Numbed by that deadly influence.”

He spoke, and when his speech was done Bent his fierce brows on Raghu’s son. With eager eyes he looked around If lethal arms might yet be found. Not far away and full in view A Sál-tree towering upward grew. His lips in mighty strain compressed, He tore it up with root and crest, With huge arms waved it o’er his head And hurled it shouting, Thou art dead. But Ráma, unsurpassed in might, Stayed with his shafts its onward flight, And furious longing seized his soul The giant in the dust to roll. Great drops of sweat each limb bedewed, His red eyes showed his wrathful mood. A thousand arrows, swiftly sent, The giant’s bosom tore and rent. From every gash his body showed The blood in foamy torrents flowed, As springing from their caverns leap Swift rivers down the mountain steep. When Khara felt each deadened power Yielding beneath that murderous shower, He charged, infuriate with the scent Of blood, in dire bewilderment. But Ráma watched, with ready bow, The onset of his bleeding foe, And ere the monster reached him, drew Backward in haste a yard or two. Then from his side a shaft he took Whose mortal stroke no life might brook: Of peerless might, it bore the name Of Brahmá’s staff, and glowed with flame: Lord Indra, ruler of the skies, Himself had given the glorious prize. His bow the virtuous hero drew, And at the fiend the arrow flew. Hissing and roaring like the blast Of tempest through the air it passed, And fixed, by Ráma’s vigour sped, In the foe’s breast its pointed head. Then fell the fiend: the quenchless flame Burnt furious in his wounded frame. So burnt by Rudra Andhak(477) fell In Śvetáraṇya’s silvery dell: So Namuchi and Vritra(478) died By steaming bolts that tamed their pride: So Bala(479) fell by lightning sent By Him who rules the firmament.

Then all the Gods in close array With the bright hosts who sing and play, Filled full of rapture and amaze, Sang hymns of joy in Ráma’s praise, Beat their celestial drums and shed Rain of sweet flowers upon his head. For three short hours had scarcely flown, And by his pointed shafts o’erthrown The twice seven thousand fiends, whose will Could change their shapes, in death were still, With Triśirás and Dúshaṇ slain, And Khara, leader of the train. “O wondrous deed,” the bards began, “The noblest deed of virtuous man! Heroic strength that stood alone, And firmness e’en as Vishṇu’s own!”

Thus having sung, the shining train Turned to their heavenly homes again. Then the high saints of royal race And loftiest station sought the place, And by the great Agastya led, With reverence to Ráma said:

“For this, Lord Indra, glorious sire, Majestic as the burning fire, Who crushes cities in his rage, Sought Śarabhanga’s hermitage. Thou wast, this great design to aid, Led by the saints to seek this shade, And with thy mighty arm to kill The giants who delight in ill. Thou Daśaratha’s noble son, The battle for our sake hast won, And saints in Daṇḍak’s wild who live Their days to holy tasks can give.”

Forth from the mountain cavern came The hero Lakshmaṇ with the dame. And rapture beaming from his face, Resought the hermit dwelling-place. Then when the mighty saints had paid Due honour for the victor’s aid, The glorious Ráma honoured too By Lakshmaṇ to his cot withdrew. When Sítá looked upon her lord, His foemen slain, the saints restored, In pride and rapture uncontrolled She clasped him in her loving hold. On the dead fiends her glances fell: She saw her lord alive and well, Victorious after toil and pain, And Janak’s child was blest again. Once more, once more with new delight Her tender arms she threw Round Ráma whose victorious might Had crushed the demon crew. Then as his grateful reverence paid Each saint of lofty soul, O’er her sweet face, all fears allayed, The flush of transport stole.