The air above Suvela Parvata still carried the scent of battle, a silent testament to the clash of divine power and mortal ambition. This was Indrajit, the favored son of Ravana, the warrior known as Meghnad, the Thunder-of-the-Cloud, and Vasavajit, the Conqueror-of-Indra, whose legend was not one of simple martial prowess, but of audacious devotion and a tragic destiny.
Indrajit had achieved what no other in the three worlds could claim: he had twice felled the princes of Kosala, Rama and Lakshmana. He had used the powerful Nagapasha to bind them with living, venomous serpents, and later, deployed the unparalleled might of the Brahmastra, plunging both divine incarnations into a sleep akin to death. Yet, they had risen, their resilience baffling and infuriating. The persistence of Lakshmana, in particular, was like a splinter in his soul. The knowledge that his greatest victories had been undone by what seemed like divine intervention eroded his battlefield arrogance.
The great war had consumed his kin. The colossal Kumbhakarna had fallen. His beloved brother Atikaya lay slain. Lanka was besieged, its ramparts crumbling, and his father, the majestic Ravana, was increasingly isolated. Indrajit recognized that his prodigious strength and the astras granted by his Guru, Shukracharya, were no longer enough. He was bound by the promise of Brahma. The final act of invulnerability lay in the completion of the Nikumbhila Yagna, a secret fire-worship. He remembered the explicit warning. Whosoever destroyed that yagna would be the one to destroy him.
Now, fleeing the open battlefield, Indrajit was a devotee on the run. His faith was not placed in the distant, benevolent deities, but in the immediate, formidable power of the Mother, Devi Prathyangira. She was the Lioness-Faced Fury, the heart of Kali's ugra (terrible) aspect, also revered as Nikumbala. His devotion to her was fierce, rooted in the deepest, most ancient traditions of his lineage.
He shed his glorious war-chariot and his heavy armor, adopting the guise of an austere traveler. His path was not along the paved roads of Lanka, but through treacherous, hidden jungle trails at the base of the Pancha-Kuta mountains. He moved with speed and silence, driven by the urgency of self-preservation and the determination to save his kingdom. Every shadow seemed to hold the gaze of Lakshmana, and every rustle of leaves was a whisper of his approaching fate.
The mountain ascent was grueling, a purification through hardship. This peak was known only to the deepest priestly caste, for it housed the cave-temple of the Mother, a place of immense, primal power. As he climbed, he wrestled with the conflicting ideals of Dharma and survival. Was it Dharma to allow a foreign prince to dismantle his civilization, or was his Dharma to use every available power, sacred or profane, to protect his father and his people?
His internal debate focused on the very nature of his patroness. Prathyangira was the energy of action, capable of fulfilling the eight acts: growth, subduing, attraction, and critically, repealing the enemy's victory and ultimate killing. He was heading toward her, not as a desperate warrior, but as a son seeking his Mother’s intervention in a cosmic struggle he felt was unfairly balanced against him. He was on the final path to invoke the Amara-Ratha (Deathless Chariot), the one boon that would make him the final, impenetrable shield of Lanka. He had to complete the fire-worship before his relentless foe found him.
The clamor of the battlefield faded behind Indrajit, replaced by the suffocating quiet of his desperate journey. The smoking ruins of Lanka’s outer defenses and the visible despair etched on his father’s face were stark memories he needed to outrun. The war, which he had fought with such devastating success, had turned into a grinder of hope. The fall of his gigantic uncle, Kumbhakarna, and the heroic death of his cousin, Atikaya, had hammered home a bitter truth: against the combined forces of Rama, Lakshmana, and their celestial allies, sheer Rakshasa might was failing.
The powerful mantras and astras gifted by his Guru, the revered Shukracharya—weapons like the Vayavyastra and the knowledge to summon his swift celestial chariot—were proving ephemeral. Their effect was temporary, easily countered by the divine grace protecting the princes. Indrajit felt a chilling sense of cosmic balance asserting itself, nullifying his hard-won power.
He understood that he was caught between a magnificent boon and a terrible curse. The words of Brahma, spoken after his greatest penance, echoed ceaselessly in his mind, heavy and defining:
"Whosoever destroys the Nikumbhila Yagna, O great son of Ravana, shall be the instrument of your end. The boon of invulnerability, save through its destruction, is yours."
This was his singular, glorious vulnerability. He could only be killed if the sacred fire-worship, dedicated to his native goddess Prathyangira, was interrupted.
And the agent of that possible destruction was still alive. Lakshmana, the younger prince, was a relentless presence. He was the resilient serpent who had slipped the noose of the Nagapasha and shrugged off the coma induced by the Brahmastra. Lakshmana’s bow continued to sing its song of relentless Dharma, his very survival mocking Indrajit's past victories.
The strategy of grand, open confrontation was now exhausted. Indrajit recognized that his time on the front lines, trading blows and astras, was over. Survival, and the salvation of Lanka, now hinged on a calculated retreat—a race against time to claim the invulnerability promised by Brahma.
This necessity drove him toward the secret path, toward the desperate, singular invocation of his Mother Goddess. He had to reach the high mountain cave, perform the Nikumbhila Yagna, and emerge upon the Amara-Ratha (Deathless Chariot), transforming himself from a great warrior into an invincible force. Only then could he guarantee the defense of his civilization. Everything—the legacy of his father, the fate of his city, his own life—depended on the successful, uninterrupted completion of the sacred fire. He had to achieve this one, final mastery before Lakshmana could find him.
The journey began not in a chariot, but on foot, through trails known only to the priests of the deepest, oldest Rakshasa lineage. Indrajit moved as a shadow. His armor, usually burnished like the setting sun, was now draped in the ochre of anonymity; his heavy mace exchanged for a humble staff carved from a Rudraksa tree. He traversed the thick, venomous jungle that wrapped the base of the Pancha-Kuta mountain range—a craggy spine of stone where the air thinned and the whispers of the yakshas replaced the screams of war.
The path was a serpentine coil of roots and slick rock, guarded by more than mere geography. Here, the essence of the Goddess Prathyangira—also known as Nikumbala or Atharvana Bhadrakali—was most potent. Her abode was not a temple of stone and gold, but a cave temple, a hollow scooped from the mountain’s living heart, perpetually smelling of ozone, camphor, and sacrificial blood.
As he climbed, a dialogue began within him, not with a mortal interlocutor, but with the swirling conscience of his being.
"They call me Shakrajit," he mused, wiping the cold, damp sweat from his brow. "I conquered the King of the Gods! Yet, here I am, reduced to a desperate supplicant, fleeing two humanoids whose lineage I despise. Is this Kala (Time) itself playing a cruel joke? Is this the nature of Māyā (illusion) that blinds even the most potent of beings?"
His mind flashed back to his childhood, to the first, terrible vision of the Goddess, revealed to him by Guru Shukra. The sight of her, the formidable Narasimhi, with the fierce lion face, the body of a woman, and the eyes that saw past all delusion. She, who emerged from the third eye of Sharabha, the ultimate pacifier of even the raging Narasimha—the one who restored Dharma by calming the ugra Krodha (fury) of the Man-Lion Avatara.
He reached a narrow, treacherous ridge, the wind howling around him like a mournful spirit. Below, the twinkling lights of a sleepless Lanka resembled scattered jewels, a reminder of the kingdom he was fighting to save.
"It is for Lanka. It is for my father," he affirmed, his voice a low, gravelly sound. "Not for glory, but for survival. The balance of the worlds is tilted, O Mother. The Rishis of the North call their cause Dharma. But is not the preservation of one’s own kingdom, the protection of one's father, also Dharma? Is this not one of the eight acts I may invoke you for: Repealing the enemy’s victory, and ultimately, Killing the agent of our ruin?"
He came upon a cleft in the rock, a single, unadorned stone portal. With a practiced gesture, he pressed the Tilak (sacred mark) of ash upon the rough stone, intoning the Prathyangira Beeja Mantra, a sound that was neither word nor song, but a vibrational key. The stone slid open, revealing a passage that plunged into immediate, absolute darkness. He stepped into the mountain's embrace, the outside world sealed off, leaving him alone in the sacred silence.
The cave chamber was vast and cool, illuminated solely by a perpetual flame burning from a deep pit in the center, the Yagna-Kunda. The air here was still and heavy, laced with the powerful, metallic scent of ancient oblations and divine power.
At the far end, carved not by a sculptor’s chisel but seemingly grown from the rock itself, was the icon of the Goddess. She was terrifying, yet undeniably maternal. Four arms, holding a Trishula (Trident), a Damaru (Drum), a human skull-cup, and making the gesture of granting boons. But it was the head that commanded attention: the enormous, magnificent face of a lioness, her mane a corona of carved flame, her eyes, two immense opals that seemed to swallow the light. This was Prathyangira, the formidable Nikumbala.
Indrajit collapsed onto the cold stone floor, shedding the staff and the pretense of strength. He was no longer Vasavajit, but the son, the desperate devotee.
He began the ritual, not with the arrogance of a Rakshasa prince, but the intense focus of a seasoned yogi. He recited the Atharvana-Bhadrakali Stotram, a complex, fire-inducing sequence of praise that spoke of the Mother's role as one of the Saptamatrikas (Seven Divine Mothers) who had assembled to crush the Asuras, Shumbha and Nishumbha, a perspective that he could not forget.
As the smoke from the Kunda grew thicker, coiling and swirling, the fire within it surged. From the heart of the roaring flame, a form began to coalesce, a shimmering condensation of light and heat that slowly took the shape of the Goddess, no longer the static idol, but a living, breathing, terrifying entity.
Her voice, when it spoke, was not a whisper, but a resonant frequency that vibrated through Indrajit’s very bones, the sound of a thousand lions roaring in unison, yet laced with the compassion of a billion mothers.
"O mighty son of Ravana. You have sought the secret path and found your Mother’s heart. Your devotion is pure, your will is the fire of a thousand pyres. Tell me, why does the mighty Conqueror-of-Indra seek refuge in the earthen womb, when the call of battle rings in the upper air?"
Indrajit lifted his head, his eyes burning with the fever of his conviction.
Indrajit, known as Ghananada to the innermost circle of his family, felt the chill of the stone floor beneath his knees, a stark contrast to the divine, searing heat radiating from the manifested form of the Goddess. The intensity of his plea was absolute, a desperate torrent of words poured out before the Lioness-Faced Mother.
"Mother, O Narasimhi!" he began, his voice strained but unwavering, acknowledging her fierce, pacifying power that tamed Narasimha's Krodha. "I have come seeking the completion of the sacred fire, the Nikumbhila Yagna! I need the Amara-Ratha, the Deathless Chariot promised by the Creator, Brahma. Mounted upon that celestial vehicle, I become invulnerable, a shield that cannot be pierced."
He articulated his military failures not with shame, but with utter bewilderment. "I have exhausted every stratagem of war and magic. I deployed the Nagapasha, binding them with living serpents that should have choked the very life from their bodies. I then used the Brahmastra, the ultimate weapon, ensuring a cosmic slumber that should have rendered them unconscious forever. Yet, Mother, they rise! They survive the deepest sleep of death, sustained by a power I do not understand, a power that ignores the laws of astra and mantra that I have mastered under Shukracharya."
Rising to his knees, his hands pressed together in the humble yet determined Anjali Mudra, he posed the central question that tortured his intellect and his spirit. "They, the princes of Kosala, claim to be Dharma incarnate. They have come as agents of ruin. They have ravaged my home, slaughtered my kinsmen, and now stand ready to extinguish the light of Lanka forever. Is it not my fundamental right as a son, as a prince, and as a soldier, to protect my own? Tell me, Mother, you who restored the cosmic order by calming the fury of the Avatar, why do my greatest astras, granted by the very Devas, fail against these two men? Where is the justice in their continued survival, and the failure of my righteous defense?"
The atmosphere in the cave thickened, the perpetual flame in the Yagna-Kunda soaring momentarily as if responding to the Mother’s presence. The Goddess fixed her enormous opal eyes, eyes that seemed to encompass the entire night sky, upon him. The heat radiating from her ugra form intensified, causing the air itself to crackle and hum with raw, uncontained energy.
Her response was a monumental, resonant sound, both question and condemnation, piercing through his carefully constructed defenses.
"O Ghananada," she intoned, using his family name to remind him of his lineage, not just his battles. "You ask why the divine astra fails against the divine Avatara? You speak of Dharma, of righteousness, while standing in the lineage of the one who stole the consort of that Dharma? You, the son of Ravana, the mighty King who violated the sanctity of marriage and home, now ask if your cause is just?"
Her words were a devastating truth-bomb, a cosmic challenge to his moral premise. She was stripping away the justification of the war, exposing the original sin that fueled the entire conflict. Indrajit felt a profound, almost painful internal resistance to her divine logic. He was trying to justify his actions based on current necessity, the defense of his kingdom, while she was citing the foundational violation.
He lowered his gaze momentarily, the gravity of her statement hitting him. But the need to save Lanka quickly rekindled his resolve. He could not, would not, accept that the fate of his entire race and civilization was forfeit due to his father's single, albeit colossal, error. He had fought not for the kidnapping, but for the survival of his people against the aggressive invasion that followed. He had to steer the conversation back to the mechanics of power, to the practical realities of the war he needed to win. His devotion was to the Goddess of Action, and he required action, not philosophical dissection of his father's choices. The yagna was his only path forward.
Her voice was stern, a thunderclap in the cave's stillness.
"I am Prathyangira. I am the energy of Action. My power is neutral, like the lightning in the cloud you are named after. I am invoked for all eight acts: Appealing, Growth, Increasing, Attracting, Subduing, Dissension, Repealing, and Killing. But even my power is bound by the Great Order. You seek the completion of the Nikumbhila fire, you seek to become a being who cannot be killed. My Son, you seek what is not due to you in this cycle of existence."
Indrajit shook his head, a gesture of fierce, rebellious denial.
"I seek only the power to protect, Mother! My father, Ravana, is a devotee of Shiva! He has performed penance for millennia! He brought the golden age to Lanka! And yet, they come, two princes, fueled by the grief of a human separation, to tear down our empire! I am the last shield! If I fall, Lanka falls. If Lanka falls, the delicate balance of Asura and Deva power is destroyed, and the universe becomes dull and monochrome, ruled only by a single principle!"
His passion was a physical thing, a force that seemed to push against the divine aura of the Goddess.
"Mother Nikumbala, it is written in your lore that I must complete this fire-worship. You granted the blueprint! You blessed the inception! Do not deny your son the completion! You taught me the difference between Maya and Satya (Truth)! Their Dharma is Maya to me. My Father's kingdom is Satya!"
The Goddess watched him for a long moment, the intensity of her gaze a profound judgment. The flames in the Yagna-Kunda danced wildly, reaching out like hungry, supplicating hands.
The Lioness-Faced Mother, Prathyangira, continued to gaze at Indrajit, her fierce opal eyes holding a terrible mix of compassion and cosmic inevitability. The heat in the cave, while still immense, now modulated, no longer a scorching blast but a profound, vibrating warmth that enveloped the prince.
"The Amara-Ratha is yours, my son, should you complete the ritual. That power, once granted by Brahma, is not mine to revoke, for the word of the Creator is absolute," she declared, affirming his path. "But you must know the full weight of the forces arrayed against you. The very power you seek has a fatal counter-clause woven into its nature. You seek the boon that makes you invincible, the enemy seeks the power to destroy the source of that invincibility. Both are paths of karma, one of desperate acquisition, one of righteous destruction."
She paused, and the roar in her voice softened to a deep, resonant, almost guttural purr, the sound a thousand times more ancient than the mountains.
"You believe you fight a prince of Kosala, a mere mortal guided by his brother's sorrow. You are gravely mistaken, Ghananada. The human brother, Lakshmana, is being guided by a force far greater than the astra of your Guru or the intense devotion of your heart. He is the prime instrument of this counter-act."
Indrajit listened intently, his breathing shallow. He had always dismissed Lakshmana as the impulsive younger brother, fierce but fundamentally subservient to Rama.
"You twice bound the Avatara of Vishnu with the Nagapasha and the Brahmastra. But think, my son, who is it that Vishnu, the Preserver, rests upon in the cosmic ocean of Kshira Sagara? Who is the eternal foundation that supports the entire weight of the universe and bears the Lord’s divine form across all eons?"
The Goddess’s voice took on a hypnotic quality, drawing Indrajit into a vision beyond the cave.
"Lakshmana is none other than the eternal Adisesha himself, the primordial thousand-headed serpent, the very couch upon which Vishnu reclines. He is the endless coil of Time, the embodiment of the foundational resilience of the cosmos. He possesses a fundamental immunity to the astra you used. You cast the serpents of the Nagapasha, but how can the greatest of all serpents be bound by its own lesser kin? You cast the Brahmastra, but how can the foundation of existence be destroyed by a weapon meant to enforce existence?"
Indrajit’s eyes widened in stunned comprehension. This was the missing piece of the puzzle, the invisible force that had undone his greatest military achievements. He had been fighting a primal entity, not Kshatriya warriors.
"Adisesha, in his form as Lakshmana, is the embodiment of Dharana, the power of holding and sustaining. His entire purpose in this incarnation is to ensure the Dharma established by Rama remains unshakeable. He is here, specifically, to disrupt the one thing that can halt the cycle of destiny: the completion of your invulnerability."
She leaned forward, her Lioness-face filling his vision. "He will not yield. He cannot be turned back by fear or by force of arms, because his essence is the universe’s own determination. While you conduct this sacred Nikumbhila Yagna, the most intense of your prayers and submissions, Adisesha, in the guise of Lakshmana, will be drawn to this sanctuary like iron to a magnet. He is not merely seeking a kill, he is fulfilling a Cosmic Requirement."
"Your boon from Brahma is conditional. Brahma knew that to grant true invincibility would collapse the cosmic structure. He put the counter-clause there, knowing that only a force of equal, foundational weight could execute it. Lakshmana is that force. He will be certain to disturb your prayers and your submissions to me. His very presence here is his primary purpose."
The Mother’s fierce eyes softened momentarily, a flash of genuine sorrow crossing her countenance. "I am Nikumbala, the Mother of Action. I can give you the energy, the focus, and the unwavering conviction to finish the fire. I can grant you the power to repel those who seek to harm you before the ritual begins. But once the Yagna is in its deepest stage, when you are solely focused on the mantras and the offerings, my protection is bound by the laws of Kriya Yoga and your own spiritual focus. I cannot intervene to stop a foundational cosmic entity who is fulfilling his role as the instrument of the counter-act."
"You are racing against your own destiny, my son. The moment you began your journey on the secret path, Lakshmana was alerted to the necessity of finding this exact spot. Every moment you spend in this yagna is a moment he spends closing the distance. Do you still choose to proceed with the ritual, knowing that the foundation of the very universe, incarnated as the younger prince, is now hunting you to interrupt your final invocation?"
Indrajit finally understood the nature of his enemy. It was not a man he fought, but the very force of stability. Yet, the revelation only served to harden his resolve. He had to complete the ritual faster than the speed of Adisesha's pursuit.
"Listen carefully, Meghnad. You are here. The ritual is underway. But I warn you, even now, the enemy is being pointed toward this mountain. The power of the Lioness-Faced Mother can be invoked to achieve any end, but it cannot override the final decree of the Grand Cosmic Order. Ask not for the invincibility of your body, which is transient. Ask for the clarity of your vision, so that you may choose the path where your Atman (Soul) finds its truest battle. Do you choose to proceed with the ritual, knowing that the destroyer is already on your heels?"
Indrajit’s resolve was forged of iron, tempered by the humiliation of his prior defeats. He looked up at the fiery, magnificent Mother, and a slow, grim smile touched his lips.
"My Vision is clear, O Atharvana Bhadrakali. I see only the Yagna completed. The destroyer will find me engaged in devotion, not in battle. And when I emerge from this sacred heart of the mountain, mounted upon the Amara-Ratha, let them come. For then, Mother, no force in the three worlds will be able to strike me down. I choose the Yagna. I choose the Amara-Ratha. Grant me your protection, O Nikumbala, while I complete the fire that will ensure Lanka's freedom."
He bowed low, touching his forehead to the cold stone floor, shutting his eyes against the searing, luminous presence of the Goddess. The roar of the Lioness-Face faded, the intense heat receded, and the living form dissolved back into the swirling smoke of the Yagna-Kunda.
Meghnad, the great warrior, was now a priest. The final, desperate, and potentially fatal ritual had begun. He was safe within the mountain, but the silence he embraced was the silence before the great storm. His greatest battle would not be fought with a bow, but with the concentration of his own spirit, racing against the approaching footsteps of his destined slayer. (c) Bharat Bhushan
10 December 2025
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