The sun rose once more over the bloody fields of Lanka, casting its golden rays upon broken chariots and fallen warriors. Yet neither side yielded, for the battle between dharma and adharma raged on.
Ravana, burning with anger at the loss of his mighty warriors, summoned his most powerful son — Indrajit, the master of dark magic, feared by gods and men alike.
“O mighty Indrajit,” Ravana spoke, “today, strike terror into Rama’s heart. Let the skies darken with your arrows. Let him taste defeat.”
Indrajit bowed, his eyes gleaming with pride. “Father, I shall destroy their hopes. Today, the brothers shall fall.”
With sacred chants and dark spells, Indrajit became invisible to mortal eyes. His chariot soared through the clouds, drawn by fierce black horses, as he rained down arrows like thunderbolts upon the vanara army.
The earth shook, the sky turned dark, and panic spread as vanaras fell, unable to see their unseen foe.
Lakshmana, brave and steadfast, rose against the storm. “Face me, O coward who hides in the sky! Fight me, and you shall know the might of Rama’s brother.”
But Indrajit, hidden behind his dark magic, unleashed his deadliest weapon — the Shakti astra, a spear of divine power.
With a flash of light, it struck Lakshmana in the chest. The mighty prince staggered, his bow slipping from his hands. Blood flowed, and Lakshmana fell to the ground, his eyes closing like the setting sun.
A cry of anguish tore from Rama’s lips. He rushed to his brother, gathering him in his arms. “O Lakshmana! Awake, my dearest brother. You are my strength, my heart. You must not leave me.”
The vanara warriors wept, their hearts breaking at the sight of their brave prince lying still upon the earth.
But hope was not lost. The great physician Sushena stepped forward. After examining Lakshmana, he spoke urgently, “There is but one cure — the herb Sanjeevani, found only on the distant mountain of Dronagiri. It shines like the moon and breathes life into the fallen. Bring it before the night ends, or Lakshmana shall not see the dawn.”
All eyes turned to Hanuman — the mighty one, the wind’s son. Without a word, Hanuman bowed low to Rama. “Fear not, my lord. I shall bring the herb, or I shall not return.”
With a leap that shook the heavens, Hanuman soared toward the mountains — his heart filled with devotion, his mind set upon saving Lakshmana.
Rama sat by his brother’s side, his eyes filled with tears. “O Lakshmana, hold on. The world may fall, but I shall not let you go.”
The battlefield grew silent, the winds themselves waiting, as the fate of Lakshmana — and the war — now rested in Hanuman’s mighty hands.