The Princes of Ayodhya-The Ramayan Through Short Stories

From the City of the Skies (has the savior come?)

Ram's first arrow left his bow, and from the other side, he could see the pointy tip of Ravan's rushing towards him, aimed for the middle of his forehead, right in between his eyes. As they flew towards each other, everything seemed to slow down. 

The gentle breeze stopped breezing. The mountains stopped looming. The shadows receded into their sources. From Heaven, Indra held his breath.

The first weapons of the final war collided into each other furiously, creating a splash of sparks in the dewey dawn air. Ram exhaled, his jaw unclenching, and he stepped back. So it had begun. The final battle of Ram and Ravan. The final battle of the war. The final battle of good and evil. And for one of them, the final battle they would ever fight, the last opponent they would ever see, the ultimate judgment between life and death. If the Gods had even looked their way for any year of his life, then Ram was certain. He would win.

Humphing, mildly annoyed but not entirely surprised, Ravan lifted a multiplying arrow from his quiver. "Let's see if you match this," he challenged. 

Ram lifted his chin slightly, but didn't answer, Ravan rolled his eyes before letting go of the bowstring, watching with a small amount of pride as the arrow cut through the wind and rushed through the heavy morning fog, multiplying into two, then four, then eight, then sixteen, then thirty-two, then sixty-four, then-you know the drill if you've memorized the times tables.

His army of even-numbered missiles was unbeatable. Until a single arrow of Ram's made them all combust in mid-air. "What?" Ravan angrily shouted. "That doesn't make any sense mathematically! Even is unbeatable! Multiples of two always end the enemy, because a friend always makes an arrow stronger. Odds are nothing compared to evens. So how could one of your arrows beat 2048 of mine? It's impossible."

Ram delicately notched another arrow into his bow, waiting until the last of the embers fluttered to the ground before speaking. "It seems that along with dharma, you also haven't even understood mathematics, Ravan. Remember that odds can always divide evens, but evens can never divide odds." 

Ram stepped one foot back. "But you didn't need any math to return Sita. Only a little bit of decency. Why don't you possess that?"

Ram shot his arrow, but Ravan quickly deflected it out of the air and into the ground next to him. "Ravan does what he wants." Ravan boasted, puffing his hideous chest out (really, no one wants to see all that weird chest hair).

"I am not scared of any dev, danav, and certainly not a mortal like you. I take what I want. There is no law, no integrity, no conscience that can restrict me. I am all powerful! I can do what I wish and I face no consequences, for there is no superior being on this planet than me."

Standing completely rigid, lean muscles rippling, jaw clenched in such a way that could reduce diamonds to worthless shards, Ram simmered. "You say words like that and pretend you're superior to everyone else? Sitting on a high throne your golden Sigiriya, built off of other's blood, with riches that have been spun from righteous lives?" 

Ram stepped forward once, yet it felt as if he had become Vaman with his enormous pace. As if he had cornered Ravan in his own chariot, walked up to his face with his burning eyes, and stared at him with the might of the whole world behind him.

"We've wasted three arrows on this useless exchange of dialogue." Ram murmured. He stepped forward, and Ravan nervously picked up an arrow. "You can put that down, Ravan, I am not like you. I don't attack unprepared enemies, no matter how despicable they may be. You haven't reconsidered, and I certainly am not scared by your words. If we continue to delay a worthy battle, then even the Gods will be angry. Mochi's readers will be angry. And Lakshman will be extremely angry, which you don't want."