B R Chopra Ramayan - Page 28

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Sheshanag and Nagalakshmi

and their divine incarnations :

Lakshman Urmila

Balaram Revati

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The Blossom of Mithila

The dusk over Ayodhya melted into gold — a tender hush after years of thunder. The palace shimmered beneath the last light of day; the air trembled with conch shells, temple bells, and voices rising in joy for their returning queen. Yet, beyond the marble corridors and the cries of celebration, a quiet chamber breathed its own kind of divinity — where reunion, not royalty, reigned.

There stood the four daughters of Mithila — Sita, Urmila, Mandavi, and Shrutakirti — sisters once parted by fate, now bound again in the soft light of homecoming.

Sita — the eldest, radiant and still as a flame sheltered from the wind — stood at the heart of the room. Her sari shimmered in shades of vermilion and gold, every fold carrying the memory of her journey through shadow and fire. Around her neck, a garland of white and red blossoms glowed — white for her purity, red for her strength. Her smile was calm, deep as the earth after rain.

Urmila was the first to move. Draped in green silk that shimmered like monsoon leaves, she stepped forward with eyes glistening. “Didi,” she whispered, her voice trembling between laughter and tears, “how many nights I dreamed of this moment. When lord kept his vigil in the forest, I kept mine here — not in sleep, but in waiting. Every dawn, I prayed that you would return.”

Sita’s hand reached for hers, warm and steady. “My dear Urmila,” she said softly, “you too lived through exile — though your walls were carved of silence, not stone. You kept faith for both of us. Your patience was my strength.”

Urmila’s tears fell like pearls, yet her smile shone through them. “Then today, Didi, the years fade away. For in your return, all my waiting finds meaning.”

Mandavi stepped closer then — serene, poised, her sari the deep blue of twilight. There was a stillness in her, like the river that holds both depth and direction. “Sita Didi,” she said, her voice low and sure, “when lord bore the burden of a kingdom without elder brother, I learned what love means in silence. But even in sorrow, your faith guided us. The winds carried your name to Mithila — a whisper of courage, a promise that the light endures.”

Sita looked at her with tears shining like morning dew. “And it was your prayers, Mandavi, that reached me when despair darkened the forest. They were the unseen hands that held me upright.”

Then came Shrutakirti, the youngest, laughter trembling on her lips even as her eyes brimmed with tears. She wore yellow, bright as dawn, her bangles chiming like little bells. “Do you remember, Didi,” she said, her voice soft with wonder, “how we once wove garlands in the garden, dreaming of our weddings? We thought love was all songs and laughter. But I have learned — love is what remains when laughter fades. It is in the waiting, the forgiving, the faith that does not die.”

Sita’s hand tightened around hers. “Yes,” she whispered, “love is not what we are given, but what we give, Shrutakirti, even when it leaves us empty, it is in patience, in surrender, in the quiet courage to still believe.”

For a moment, time stilled. The four sisters stood close, their foreheads touching, their hands entwined. No words — only breath, only heartbeats, only the soft hum of belonging.

Outside, Ayodhya sparkled with a thousand lamps — the world celebrating Rama’s victory, the return of its king and queen. But within this chamber, another kind of triumph bloomed — quiet, tender, eternal.

Shrutakirti lifted her gaze, eyes shining like the Yamuna beneath the moon. “The world will remember Rama’s triumph,” she said gently. “But we — the daughters of Mithila — will remember this: that your grace, Didi, did not falter even when the forest tested your soul. You carried all of us in your strength.”

Sita smiled through her tears — that ancient, earth-born smile. “No strength is mine alone,” she said. “You are each a thread in the fabric of my courage. In every trial, I carried your love with me. Mithila’s spirit — our mother’s spirit — lived through us all.”

Urmila drew her veil closer, her voice barely a whisper. “Then let this moment belong to us, Didi. Not as queens, not as wives — but as sisters.”

And so they stood — four daughters of Mithila, four reflections of one sacred flame. The light of the oil lamps wove halos around their veils, gilding their faces with warmth. Outside, the songs of Ayodhya filled the night; inside, the silence bloomed with peace.

For the first time in years, Sita — daughter of the earth, sister of Mithila — felt home.

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