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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The Lamp That Never Fades

The crimson sky of Ayodhya glowed like a silk tapestry brushed by the light of sunset. The palace was alive again — filled with music, the fragrance of sandalwood, and the laughter of a city that had waited fourteen long years to breathe in joy. And yet, far from the grandeur of Rama and Sita’s coronation, in the quiet marble courtyard near the inner gardens, a softer story was unfolding — one of silence, of love deferred, and of reunion.

Lakshman stood there, still wrapped in the saffron robes of exile, the bow that had guarded his brother now resting at his side. He had faced demons, storms, and sleepless nights, yet nothing had prepared him for this — the sight of the woman who had waited all these years in quiet faith.

Urmila.

She approached with a brass plate in her hands, a small flame dancing at its center, its light trembling against her golden silk sari. The soft jingle of her bangles echoed through the courtyard, and for a moment, the world seemed to still around them. When she lifted her gaze, her voice trembled like the flame she carried.

“Dear,” she whispered, “every day since you left, I lit this lamp and prayed for your safety. Every night, I told myself that somewhere, beyond the forest shadows, this same light reached you. Today, I light it again — not for prayer, but to welcome you home.”

Lakshman’s felt pride, his throat heavy with emotion. He stepped closer, eyes filled with reverence. “Dear,” he said softly, “while I guarded my brother in the wilderness, you guarded my heart from afar. You kept the flame alive when I could not. You waited — and that waiting was greater courage than any battle I fought.”

The lamp between them glowed brighter, as if blessing their reunion. Urmila smiled faintly, her fingers trembling as she held the plate. “Fourteen years is a long time to keep faith,” she said. “But my heart never doubted. I knew my dear would return — for duty might take you far, but love would always guide you home.”

Lakshman reached out and gently took her hand, his touch hesitant at first, then steady — a bridge across years of silence. “You have done more than I ever did,” he said softly. “I fought with arrows; you fought with devotion. You lived my exile in these palace walls.”

Before Urmila could speak, two familiar voices drifted in — laughter light and bright as windchimes. Mandavi and Shrutakirti stepped into the courtyard, smiling at the reunited pair.

Mandavi spoke first, her tone kind and knowing. “Dear brother, while you were in the forest serving jija, jiji,

Urmila served Ayodhya. She was its heart — steadfast, patient, guiding us through every dark day.”

Shrutakirti nodded eagerly, her eyes twinkling. “Oh yes, jija! You should’ve seen her — she lived like a sage! No jewels, no silk, not even a mirror. She said, ‘How can I adorn myself while my husband walks barefoot beneath the trees?’ Even the palace lamps burned because she kept their light alive.”

Urmila blushed deeply. “Enough, Shrutakirti,” she murmured. “You exaggerate.”

But Shrutakirti only grinned wider. “Exaggerate? If anything, I’m being modest! Do you know how many times she spoke your name, jija? ‘Lord this,’ ‘Lord that’ — I thought she would start talking to your bow if you didn’t return soon!”

Lakshman blinked, startled, then laughed — a sound warm and unguarded. “I see exile hasn’t tamed your mischief, dear sali.”

“Of course not!” she said, feigning offense. “Someone had to keep jiji smiling while her solemn husband was away on duty!”

Urmila laughed softly, shaking her head. “Shrutakirti, you’ll never change.”

Shrutakirti smirked. “And you, sister, will never admit how much you missed him.”

At that, Lakshman took Urmila’s hand again, his voice low and sincere. “Let her tease, dear. For every word she says, my heart answers a hundredfold. I missed you more than words can tell — in every sunrise, I saw your face; in every fire, your light.”

Urmila’s breath caught. Her eyes glistened, but she smiled through her tears. “And I felt you in every prayer, dear. When the wind moved the tulsi leaves, I believed it was carrying your breath.”

Mandavi smiled gently, drawing Shrutakirti away. “Come, little one. Leave them to their peace.”

But Shrutakirti lingered for one last quip. “Oh, I’ll go, but remember, jija— your younger sali hears everything! Don’t make me write a poem about this later!”

Lakshman chuckled, shaking his head. “If you do, make it a short one.”

Her laughter faded down the corridor as she and Mandavi disappeared, leaving behind the faint echo of mischief and affection.

The courtyard grew still again. Urmila looked up at him, her voice soft as moonlight. “You handled her well, dear.”

He smiled. “Fourteen years beside my brother taught me patience. Fourteen years apart from you taught me tenderness. Between the two, I think I’m ready for Shrutakirti.”

She laughed, leaning closer. “And for me?”

He turned toward her fully now, his voice deep, tender, and sure. “For you, my dear — I have been ready all my life.”

They walked together toward the palace garden, where the moonlight spilled over the tulsi altar. The lamp she had lit for years still burned — unwavering, pure. Lakshman stopped before it, awe softening his features.

“All this time,” he murmured. “You never let it fade?”

Urmila nodded, her eyes glowing. “Every night. I told myself — until your feet cross Ayodhya again, this flame must not die.”

He reached out and covered her hands with his. “Then this is no ordinary flame, dear. It is the light of your heart — and it guided me home.”

Urmila smiled, her tears glinting like stars. “Then we were never truly apart.”

“No,” he whispered, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Only walking two paths that led to one home.”

The night around them deepened — a tapestry of silver and gold, soft wind and faraway song. In that stillness, the warrior and the waiting heart stood together at last.

Lakshman looked at her — his voice steady now, full of quiet devotion. “From this night onward, dear, I am yours — not as protector, not as exile, but as husband. No more distance, no more silence.”

Urmila placed her hand over his heart. “And I am yours — not as one who waited, but as one who walks beside you, always.”

And as the lamps of Ayodhya burned bright in celebration of Rama’s return, one small flame in the courtyard glowed brighter than all — the light of two souls reunited, love purified by time, laughter, and tears.

From the shadows of a marble pillar, Shrutakirti’s soft whisper floated on the breeze, mischievous and tender all at once:

“About time, jijashree.”

Lakshman only smiled, pulling Urmila gently into his arms.

“Home at last, my dear,” he murmured. “Truly, home.”

images credit to chat gpt

Your sentence formations and pictures are splendid

I haven't had the time to read but the pictures are great. Will get back to you soon after reading your stories.