B R Chopra Ramayan - Page 30

It Was Interesting Nice To Read About The Lesser Characters Of Ramayan

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Four Blossoms of Mithila: The Morning of Destiny 🌸 🌸 🌸 🌸

The grand hall of Mithila shimmered like the inside of a golden conch. Fragrant garlands of jasmine and marigold swayed in the gentle breeze, and the hum of excitement filled the air. It was the morning of Sita’s swayamvar, the day when the bow of Lord Shiva would decide her destiny.

The four princesses of Mithila—Sita, Urmila, Mandavi, and Shrutakirti—stood together in their chambers, their laughter weaving through the air like music. The sun streamed in through latticed windows, glinting off the fine gold jewelry that adorned them. Each of them looked radiant, their silk sarees—woven in deep pinks, reds, oranges, and gold—catching the light like molten threads.

Sita stood in the center, draped in the richest shade of gold, her calm grace like the soft glow of dawn. Her eyes sparkled with serenity, though her sisters could see the flicker of nervousness she tried to hide behind her gentle smile.

Urmila, ever the spirited one, adjusted Sita’s necklace and teased, “Didi, you look like Goddess Lakshmi herself! No prince in all the worlds will dare blink when he sees you.”

Sita laughed softly, “Then I hope he keeps his eyes open long enough to lift that mighty bow.”

Mandavi, the quiet and thoughtful one, smoothed a fold in Sita’s saree and said, “Father has said the bow is no ordinary weapon. Whoever can lift it must have strength and virtue both. Perhaps fate has already chosen your path, Didi.”

Shrutakirti, the youngest, clung to Sita’s arm and said with wide-eyed admiration, “When you walk into the hall, I’ll tell everyone, ‘That’s my Sita Didi!’—and then they’ll all see how beautiful you are.”

The sisters laughed, their voices mingling like temple bells. For a moment, the grandeur of the occasion, the weight of destiny, and the whispers of kingdoms faded away. They were just four sisters again—braiding each other’s hair, sharing secrets, and holding hands like they had since childhood.

Urmila leaned closer, her eyes mischievous. “Do you think he’ll be handsome? The one who lifts the bow?”

Sita smiled, her gaze turning soft and distant. “If his heart is pure, that is enough for me.”

Mandavi chuckled. “Only Sita Didi could say something so noble on her swayamvar day. I’d at least hope he can make me laugh.”

“And I,” said Urmila, “would want him to dance with me under the stars.”

Shrutakirti giggled, “I just want all of us to stay together, no matter who marries whom.”

There was a small silence after that—gentle, bittersweet. The sisters looked at each other, realizing that this day, bright and beautiful as it was, might also mark the beginning of their parting paths.

Urmila squeezed Sita’s hand. “Whatever happens, you’ll always be our light.”

Sita turned to her, her eyes glistening. “And you three will always be my strength.”

Just then, a maid entered, bowing low. “Princess Sita, the King calls for you. The swayamvar is about to begin.”

The sisters exchanged one last, wordless glance—a thousand emotions passing between them in that heartbeat. Urmila straightened Sita’s veil; Mandavi adjusted her bangles so they chimed like soft music; Shrutakirti pressed a small flower into her sister’s hand.

“Go, Didi,” Urmila whispered. “Make the gods proud.”

With a deep breath, Sita walked toward the grand hall, the golden folds of her saree trailing behind her like sunlight. Her sisters followed her to the threshold, watching as she stepped into the light, where kings and princes from distant lands awaited.

In that instant, she was no longer just their sister—she was Sita of Mithila, the one whose destiny would echo through ages.

And yet, as her sisters watched her walk away, they knew—beneath the gold and glory—she was still their Sita Didi, the one who had shared their laughter, their secrets, and their hearts.

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Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

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Four Blossoms of Mithila: The Morning of Destiny 🌸 🌸 🌸 🌸

The grand hall of Mithila shimmered like the inside of a golden conch. Fragrant garlands of jasmine and marigold swayed in the gentle breeze, and the hum of excitement filled the air. It was the morning of Sita’s swayamvar, the day when the bow of Lord Shiva would decide her destiny.

The four princesses of Mithila—Sita, Urmila, Mandavi, and Shrutakirti—stood together in their chambers, their laughter weaving through the air like music. The sun streamed in through latticed windows, glinting off the fine gold jewelry that adorned them. Each of them looked radiant, their silk sarees—woven in deep pinks, reds, oranges, and gold—catching the light like molten threads.

Sita stood in the center, draped in the richest shade of gold, her calm grace like the soft glow of dawn. Her eyes sparkled with serenity, though her sisters could see the flicker of nervousness she tried to hide behind her gentle smile.

Urmila, ever the spirited one, adjusted Sita’s necklace and teased, “Didi, you look like Goddess Lakshmi herself! No prince in all the worlds will dare blink when he sees you.”

Sita laughed softly, “Then I hope he keeps his eyes open long enough to lift that mighty bow.”

Mandavi, the quiet and thoughtful one, smoothed a fold in Sita’s saree and said, “Father has said the bow is no ordinary weapon. Whoever can lift it must have strength and virtue both. Perhaps fate has already chosen your path, Didi.”

Shrutakirti, the youngest, clung to Sita’s arm and said with wide-eyed admiration, “When you walk into the hall, I’ll tell everyone, ‘That’s my Sita Didi!’—and then they’ll all see how beautiful you are.”

The sisters laughed, their voices mingling like temple bells. For a moment, the grandeur of the occasion, the weight of destiny, and the whispers of kingdoms faded away. They were just four sisters again—braiding each other’s hair, sharing secrets, and holding hands like they had since childhood.

Urmila leaned closer, her eyes mischievous. “Do you think he’ll be handsome? The one who lifts the bow?”

Sita smiled, her gaze turning soft and distant. “If his heart is pure, that is enough for me.”

Mandavi chuckled. “Only Sita Didi could say something so noble on her swayamvar day. I’d at least hope he can make me laugh.”

“And I,” said Urmila, “would want him to dance with me under the stars.”

Shrutakirti giggled, “I just want all of us to stay together, no matter who marries whom.”

There was a small silence after that—gentle, bittersweet. The sisters looked at each other, realizing that this day, bright and beautiful as it was, might also mark the beginning of their parting paths.

Urmila squeezed Sita’s hand. “Whatever happens, you’ll always be our light.”

Sita turned to her, her eyes glistening. “And you three will always be my strength.”

Just then, a maid entered, bowing low. “Princess Sita, the King calls for you. The swayamvar is about to begin.”

The sisters exchanged one last, wordless glance—a thousand emotions passing between them in that heartbeat. Urmila straightened Sita’s veil; Mandavi adjusted her bangles so they chimed like soft music; Shrutakirti pressed a small flower into her sister’s hand.

“Go, Didi,” Urmila whispered. “Make the gods proud.”

With a deep breath, Sita walked toward the grand hall, the golden folds of her saree trailing behind her like sunlight. Her sisters followed her to the threshold, watching as she stepped into the light, where kings and princes from distant lands awaited.

In that instant, she was no longer just their sister—she was Sita of Mithila, the one whose destiny would echo through ages.

And yet, as her sisters watched her walk away, they knew—beneath the gold and glory—she was still their Sita Didi, the one who had shared their laughter, their secrets, and their hearts.

Wow This Is Beautiful

Waiting To For The Next Chapter

You Wrote It Wonderfully

It was really a good chapter when will you post the next one?

suggest some ideas for next story

your opinion can help a lot

How about a scene between Bharat and Shatrugn? I always wanted to read about their bonding.

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🌙 The Bond Between Two Brothers

The sun had begun its slow descent over Ayodhya, painting the palace terraces in molten gold. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and lotus from the courtyard ponds.

On one such terrace sat Bharat, his brow furrowed, a scroll forgotten beside him. His thoughts were elsewhere — far away, with his elder brothers in the forest. The ache in his heart was quiet but constant, like a wound that never fully healed.

A soft sound of footsteps approached.

“Brother,” came a voice, light and warm. Shatrughna — the youngest, his eyes bright as dawn — stood holding two cups of warm milk. “You haven’t eaten since morning.”

Bharat looked up, trying to smile. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“You always say that when your heart is heavy,” Shatrughna replied, setting one cup beside him. He sat down, shoulder brushing Bharat’s, unbothered by the silence that hung between them.

For a while, they said nothing. Only the faint hum of evening crickets and the flutter of palace flags filled the air. Then, Shatrughna spoke softly, “You miss them again, don’t you?”

Bharat’s throat tightened. “Every day. I cannot bear the thought that they suffer because of me.”

Shatrughna turned sharply, eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare say that. None of this was your doing. You’ve carried the weight of another’s mistake with too much grace already.”

Bharat’s lips trembled into a faint smile. “You always defend me, even when I am wrong.”

“I don’t defend you,” Shatrughna said, his tone gentle but firm. “I believe in you.”

There was silence again — but this time, it was full. Full of love, of unspoken promises, of the quiet strength only brothers share.

After a moment, Shatrughna nudged him playfully. “Drink your milk before it cools. If you fall sick, who will I follow around and scold all day?”

Bharat laughed — a soft, rare sound that eased something deep within Shatrughna’s chest.

As the last light of day faded into the indigo of night, the two brothers sat side by side, watching the stars appear — silent guardians of their bond.

And in that quiet, beneath the vast Ayodhya sky, their hearts whispered what words never needed to say:

“I am with you. Always.”

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