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The fight is intense, the sounds of the maces being hurtled towards each other is deafening, even to those sitting at least a good kilometer or two away. The spectators sit still scared to even breathe; the bulging biceps are filled with the power of rage and anger. The lungs breathe in the contaminated air of enmity. The raw emotions that the fighters exude is electric, the air crackles with their rivalry; every clang of the maces touching each other seems to spurt sparks. At one point the maces break into smithereens unable to bear the anger anymore; and with a deafening roar the fighters rush towards each other to fight each other bare handed; movements are lightning like, one tries to get the other, while the other tries to evade the blow and hit the former back; the bodies are slick with blood and sweat, the overpowering smell hitting every living being in the forest and stunning them with an extreme sense of fear and foreboding.

Unknown and silent, there sits a man well hidden by the foliage. He has in his hands a bow and an arrow. The bowstring is taut with the arrow; his thumb touches his lips; his eyes have the look of a hunter tracking his prey down. His elbow strictly perpendicular to his head, he crouches on the limb of a tree. He is watching and waiting. He has identified the fighter whom he shall murder in cold blood. He just needs a fraction moment to release his arrow which will pierce the heart of the enemy. He is an expert marksman; he has been learning to use the bow and arrow even before he learnt the use of words. Sweat trickles down his brow; but his concentration does not waver. He can too, feel the electricity, smell the odor that has formed by the mingling of the sweat and blood of the fighters, he can hear his heart thumping in his chest; it sounds louder than battle conches. What thoughts run through the mind of this assassin will never be known; outwardly he is calm and immobile – until that is, the moment when he let goes of the arrow. As it swishes through the foliage, the fighters fail to notice it; but the fated fighter has a momentary foreboding, he turns; almost awaiting the arrow; he is surprised too, angry at being cheated out of a good fight … but death doesn’t give him the luxury of time. As the arrow pierces his heart and exits his body, he falls down, his adversary who was trying to knock him down, finds his fist punch air instead of the jaw; the sheer force of his own punch which does not meet its intended target makes him stumble, and he almost falls on his brother. The brother who now lay in his own blood and spittle, gasping for life; he has now wet himself; body’s involuntary reaction … he takes one look at his brother and his assassin who is now walking towards him. There is a moment of extreme clarity, and then, there is darkness.

the fighters are Vaali and Sugreeva, the assassin, Rama.

Belief: If Rama and Sugreeva fought for truth and honesty, righteousness and dharma; no matter how powerful Vaali ever was, no matter how many boons he had, he should have been accorded a death that was honourable.

Killing in the battlefield is completely different from murdering someone.

Question: Is there anything called “truth and honesty” or “dharma and righteousness”? I am not so sure anymore.