The crown of knotted hair on Rama’s head, intertwined with blossoms of surpassing loveliness, gleamed like flashes of lightning on the star-lit peaks of a dark mountain. As he stood twirling his bow and arrows between his arms, drops of blood adorned his person, like a flock of rayamunis joyously perched on a tamala tree.

With a shower of gracious glances Rama dispelled the fears of the assembled gods; and the bears and monkeys all rejoiced and cried, ‘Victory to Mukunda, abode of bliss!’

When she saw her lord’s heads. Mandodari was distraught and dropped swooning to the ground. The other queens too arose and rushed to the spot in tears; they raised her and brought her to Ravana’s body.

Seeing their lord’s condition, they cried aloud; their hair flew loose and they lost control of their limbs. Wildly beating their breasts and weeping, they recounted his glory:

‘Before your might, my lord, the earth ever shock; fire, moon and sun waxed dim before your splendour. Even Shesha and the divine tortoise could not bear the weight of your body, which is now lying upon the ground, a heap of dust!

Varuna, Kuvera, Indra, the Wind – none of these ever had the courage to confront you on the field. By the might of your arm, my husband, you conquered Death and the king of hell; yet now you lie there like a forlorn slave.

Your magnificence was renowned throughout the world; your sons and kinsmen were possessed of indescribable might; but hostility to Rama has reduced you to such a plight; not one of your stock survives to mourn you.