B R Chopra Ramayan - Page 17

Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

image credit to chat gpt

scene inspired by br chopra ramayan

Its A Very Pretty

Painting

Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

i have an thought

they will show nidra devi story

but sagars haven't followed that story in any of the previous versions

so they may not show

I don't think they would show this story. So far no indication of it.

Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

i feel one thing quite strange

siradhwaj and sunayana come to visiit in chitrakut during exile

kushadhvaj and chandrabhaga didn't accompany them

it seems bit strange

I don't think Valmiki Ramayana mentioned Janaka visiting Rama. Ayodhya's ministers and sages were present.

Besides it makes no sense that Janaka could come through a different route. If I am not wrong, Janaka has to pass through Ayodhya to reach Chithrakoota.

i think

mithila family has harmonious relation with ayodhya family

all four parents would have come

valmiki ramayan doesn't focus much on it

might have arrived in ayodhya few days later if not in chitrakut

valmiki ramayan doesn't focus much on ayodhya after the implied coronation through sandals

the story of ayodhya is kept away from focus till the end of exile

in valmiki ramayan

there was no scene of hanuman visiting nandigram

sentence formation and image credit to chat gpt

Scene: A Forest of Farewell

A gentle hush lay over the forest, where the morning sun filtered through tall sal trees and bathed the grove in a sacred gold. The thick green foliage rustled with the breath of nature, but even the wind seemed to pause as if in reverence. Before a low stone platform, smooth from years of worship, stood two clay idols—Lord Ram and Devi Sita. They were sculpted in simplicity, yet bore a quiet majesty. A small mitti diya flickered steadily before them, its flame soft yet unwavering. Scattered marigold petals were strewn around the base, their vibrant orange and yellow echoing devotion.

Before the sacred figures, stood Bharat and Mandavi.

Bharat’s tall frame stood like a pillar of fire and restraint—clad in a saffron dhoti and a yellow uttariya that hung loosely across his torso. Wooden beads circled his neck, arms, and waist like symbols of inner discipline. His long black hair was tied in a neat topknot, adorned with rudraksha, a mark of his ascetic path. A red tilak blazed at the center of his broad forehead, as though it were the sun resting between his brows. Hands folded in reverence, he kept his eyes closed, lips murmuring a silent prayer—but his breath trembled, betraying the storm within.

Beside him, Mandavi knelt with grace, mirroring his devotion. Her slender form was wrapped in a saffron sari, a yellow veil drawn gently over her head. Her long plait fell over her shoulder, decorated with wooden beads woven like sacred verses through her black tresses. She was adorned simply but divinely—rudraksha earrings, bangles, rings, and a single maangtika on her forehead, which glowed softly above her bindi. A streak of red vermilion traced her hairline, shining like a vow she had no intention of breaking.

They bowed together—but it was more than worship. It was a farewell.

Bharat turned toward her slowly, pain hidden behind controlled breaths.

“You should return to the palace,” he said quietly. “Your place is not in the wild. It is among comfort, among people. You are a queen, lady—not a hermit.”

Mandavi’s gaze did not waver from the idols. Her voice came like the wind over water—gentle, steady, and certain.

“Then let the forest be my palace,” she whispered. “And silence, my court. My soul has married the path you walk, lord. I cannot walk behind you if I rest in luxury. If you choose exile in dharma, then let me choose hermitage in shraddha.”

He turned to her fully now, torn between pride and sorrow. The wind stirred their clothes, and the diya’s flame danced between them.

“You will have no comforts, no ornaments, no protection.”

“I need none,” she said, her voice catching just once. “I have your dharma as mine. That is enough.”

They both fell silent again, their folded hands still before Ram and Sita. The scene was mirrored—the divine idols standing tall in clay, and their living devotees kneeling with hearts just as firm, just as full of sacrifice.

The flame of the diya flickered again, and this time, the petals seemed to shiver in agreement.

The forest, the gods, and the moment—all bore witness.

Bharat's gaze lingered on Mandavi’s downturned face, his folded hands slowly lowering as his heart struggled between duty and devotion—toward Ram, toward the kingdom, and toward her.

He stepped closer, the leaves crunching softly beneath his bare feet. His voice, when it came, was low, layered with emotion.

“Lady, ” he said, his tone no longer that of a prince or a brother—but a man who carried a thousand silences within him. “I do not ask you to live in comfort. I do not ask you to adorn yourself in silk or gold. I only ask that you return—not for Ayodhya, but for Urmila.”

Mandavi slowly turned her head, her brows furrowing as she met his eyes.

“She waits alone,” Bharat continued, voice trembling. “Fourteen years, she has chosen solitude for Lakshman—without complaint, like a hermitess in the palace, following the path of her husband. You are her sister, her cousin, her shadow. You are all she has now. Let her not bear this austerity in silence. Live with her… not only as a sister , but as a shadow who understands her grief.”

The strength in Mandavi’s spine softened. Her lips parted, and for the first time since the sun had risen, her eyes glistened.

“I…” she began, her voice cracking. “I had forgotten… her vigil.”

Bharat stepped forward again. “Be a hermitess, Mandavi. In the palace if you must. Sleep on the floor. Wear saffron. Speak only to the gods if you choose. But do not let her suffer alone.”

Tears rolled down Mandavi’s cheeks as she nodded slowly, her hands rising again—not to fold in prayer, but to press against her heart.

“I will return,” she said, her voice shaking like a reed in the river's edge. “Not as a princess. Not as a wife in waiting. But as a soul in penance—beside hers.”

Bharat exhaled as if his breath had been locked within his chest for years. Before words could find them again, they both stepped forward, and in one shared movement, they embraced—tight and trembling.

His arms wrapped around her as if to protect her from every storm he couldn’t shield her from. Her forehead pressed to his shoulder, and her tears soaked the saffron cloth as his hand gently rested at the back of her head, steady and silent.

In that forest glade, beside the humble clay forms of Ram and Sita, two souls mourned together—not for the life they were denied, but for the weight they chose to carry.

From afar, the wind stirred again, brushing past the flame of the diya, but it did not go out.

It burned on—like devotion. Like waiting. Like love without possession.

Pictures look good

Will read the scene later

Bye

sentence formation and image credit to chat gpt

Scene: The Palace Balcony – Echoes of Waiting

The soft amber light of evening bathed the white-stone balcony of Ayodhya’s palace, where jasmine vines trailed along carved railings and the golden sky melted into a quiet dusk. The city below was hushed, respectful—as if all of Ayodhya had learned to breathe a little softer in the absence of its exiled princes.

Two women stood side by side on that high terrace—Mandavi and Urmila, cousins, companions, and now, quiet pillars of the kingdom’s inner strength.

Clad in identical saffron sarees, their yellow dupattas drawn over their heads, the two figures stood tall and serene. Their faces bore divine grace—young, fair, with eyes deep from months of silence and prayer. Their features, though similar in their gentleness, differed in tone: Mandavi’s face was longer, eyes calm and measured, while Urmila’s held a quiet intensity, her brows arching slightly, her lips often caught between restraint and longing.

Wooden beads adorned their plaits, their necks, arms, and fingers—not as ornaments, but as symbols of their vow to live like hermitesses within royal walls. From a distance, they looked like mirrored images—two sentinels of love who waited, not with sorrow, but with silent power.

Mandavi broke the silence, her voice like a thread of incense smoke—soft, lingering.

“Do you ever dream of him?” she asked without turning, her eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the palace walls.

Urmila smiled faintly, not surprised. Her hands clutched the stone railing as she answered, “I do not know if they are dreams or memories. Sometimes I hear his voice in the wind… sometimes I wake up reaching for his hand.”

Mandavi’s gaze lowered, thoughtful. “Fourteen years, Urmila… you accepted this wait before it even began.”

Urmila finally turned toward her cousin, her eyes glowing with quiet pride. “Lakshman made a vow to protect Ram bhaiya without rest or distraction. How could I let him carry that vow alone? My solitude is my seva—my service to him.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. Only resolve. Only love.

Mandavi turned to her slowly, studying her cousin’s face. “When Bharat asked me to return… it wasn’t Ayodhya I returned to. It was you. I had forgotten you were waiting too. Just like me.”

Urmila reached out and gently took Mandavi’s hand. “And now we wait together.”

They stood hand-in-hand, saffron veils fluttering in the wind, their silhouettes glowing against the softening sky. Two queens, not on thrones, but on a path of silent resilience. They did not wear jewels of gold or silk robes, but the palace, and even the gods, bowed to the sanctity of their simplicity.

After a long pause, Mandavi whispered, almost to herself, “Do you think they feel it? Our prayers, our waiting?”

Urmila closed her eyes. “If they are who we love… then yes. Every step they take must echo with the strength we send them.”

Somewhere beyond the palace, a conch shell sounded faintly. The night had begun. But for these two women, the vigil was eternal—not one of despair, but of sacred promise.

And so they stood there, the two cousins, not as left-behind wives, but as silent flames burning in parallel—steady, unwavering, and divine.

Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

the story of ayodhya is kept away from focus till the end of exile

in valmiki ramayan

there was no scene of hanuman visiting nandigram

Yes.

That's one thing that I complain about Valmiki Ramayana. There are descriptions of lifestyle that day and a lot revolves on Rama and major events and everything else is muted.

Hanuman visits Bharata after Rama sends him ahead of his arrival. When Lakshmana was hurt, Hanuman flew so fast I don't think anyone spotted him in the sky.

Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

i think

mithila family has harmonious relation with ayodhya family

all four parents would have come

valmiki ramayan doesn't focus much on it

might have arrived in ayodhya few days later if not in chitrakut

valmiki ramayan doesn't focus much on ayodhya after the implied coronation through sandals

Vidhehans were Suryavanshis as well, descended from Mithi, a Suryavanshi king/prince. There are many instances when Dasaratha and Seeradhwaja (Janaka) refer to each other as 'dear to me as a brother'. The two branches saw each other as brothers. There was a third branch which ended a few years before Sita's wedding. Janaka was present during Darasartha's Putrakameshti Yagya. He was invited and attended. Likewise Dasaratha had visited Mithila or sent someone for very important events.

Dasaratha's passing is a major event and most probably Janaka's family attended and probably went along with Bharatha to meet Rama. Valmiki Ramayana doesn't mention Janaka and family or the sisters visiting the trio in the forest.