B R Chopra Ramayan - Page 31

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🌸 The Balcony of Compassion

From the carved stone balcony above, Mandavi and Shrutakirti watched in silence. The evening breeze lifted the ends of their silk sarees, glinting gold and red in the fading light.

Below them, their husbands — Bharat and Shatrughna — sat close together, framed by the soft glow of lamps being lit across Ayodhya. The brothers’ bond, the unspoken ache between them, was something both women had come to understand deeply — and quietly carry with them.

Mandavi’s fingers tightened around the cool stone railing. Her eyes, steady and calm, followed Bharat’s bowed head.

“He still blames himself,” she whispered.

Shrutakirti nodded, her gaze lingering on Shatrughna’s gentle smile as he tried to lift his brother’s spirits. “And my husband still refuses to rest until he does.”

A faint laugh escaped Mandavi. “That is his way. He has always been his shadow — strong when lord cannot be, fierce when he will not.”

Shrutakirti’s smile softened. “And together, they are whole.”

The two women stood for a long while, saying nothing more. Below, Shatrughna leaned closer to Bharat, murmuring something that finally drew a small, reluctant smile from him. The sight filled both wives with a quiet peace — as if the burden of their husbands’ hearts had, for one brief moment, lightened.

Mandavi lowered her eyes and whispered a prayer — not for kingdoms or glory, but for healing. For all four of them.

Shrutakirti reached out, resting her hand over Mandavi’s. “Someday,” she said softly, “they will laugh again — not out of duty, but from the heart.”

Mandavi smiled faintly, the setting sun catching in her eyes like tears she would not let fall. “Yes. Until then,” she said, looking down once more, “we will keep their hearts warm.”

As dusk deepened into night, the lamps below flickered brighter, casting soft halos around the two brothers. And from above, two women watched — steady, patient, their love a quiet flame that never wavered.

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I liked the twin perspectives of the same story from different characters it was nice.

Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

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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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That's Nice

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Where Teasing Turns to Bonding

Ram stood near the carved pillar, the soft gold of his attire glowing in the warm light of the chamber. He turned as three young women entered—graceful, poised, and with eyes full of mischief.

The first one stepped forward with a gentle smile. “I am Urmila,” she said, offering a respectful bow. Her voice was calm but carried a spark that only sisters share.

Before he could reply, the second one chimed in with a slight tilt of her head. “And I am Mandavi.”

The youngest, bright-eyed and quick with amusement, completed the line. “I am Shrutakirti.”

Ram nodded, folding his hands in greeting. “Ah, so these are the famed daughters of Videh," he said. Then, lowering his voice conspiratorially, he added, “Urmila… Mandavi… Shrutakirti… Interesting names. I wonder,” he paused, pretending to think deeply, “do the meanings match your personalities, or have you only borrowed them to impress your soon-to-be jija?”

The three shared a look. Then all at once, they burst into soft laughter.

Urmila raised an eyebrow. “We came to see if you needed anything, but it seems our future jija is already too busy judging names.”

Mandavi crossed her arms and said, “Perhaps we should test him. After all, if he cannot decipher the meaning, how will he learn anything about this family?”

Shrutakirti added teasingly, “Maybe he needs lessons. We are good teachers, you know.”

Ram placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I am surrounded by scholars! Three wise salis ready to question my intelligence. I surrender.”

They scoffed playfully.

“No surrendering so soon,” Urmila said. “First, explain what you think our names mean.”

Ram pretended to ponder deeply, eyes flicking between the three. “Well… Urmila must mean ‘she who argues first.’ Mandavi, perhaps, ‘she who argues second.’ And Shrutakirti is clearly ‘she who completes the argument.’”

All three gasped in mock outrage. “That’s not even close!” Mandavi exclaimed.

Shrutakirti shook her head. “You twisted all our names just to tease us.”

Ram laughed. “That was my intention.”

Urmila stepped closer, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Do not forget, we have grown up along with the our elder sister Sita. Teasing is our specialty.”

“Ah,” Ram said, smiling, “ The people of Mithila have warned me about that.”

The three exchanged triumphant glances.

Mandavi smirked. “But we are not here to tease only. We came to ensure you are comfortable.”

Shrutakirti added, “And to see if you needed anything.”

Ram gave them a thoughtful look, then slowly said, “Well… I do have something to offer.”

The sisters waited.

“With three younger brothers of mine,” Ram continued, voice full of playful mischief, “I simply thought—if you wish to to stay with your elder sister Sita perhaps I might help arrange something?”

Their eyes widened, then all three burst into laughter again.

“So, the great prince of Ayodhya knows how to playfully bargain,” Urmila said.

Mandavi nudged Shrutakirti. “He is hinting at something.”

Shrutakirti grinned. “And we are not going to admit anything.”

Ram pretended to sigh. “Then I bow my head in defeat. The daughters of Videh have outmatched me in debate.”

Urmila lifted her chin proudly. “As they should.”

But her smile softened as she spoke again. “Still, we are glad to know our jija has humor.”

“And intelligence ,” Mandavi said.

“And courage,” Shrutakirti finished with a wink.

Ram chuckled warmly. “Let us agree, then—whenever we meet, this playful battle will continue.”

“Agreed,” the three chimed together.

As their laughter echoed in the chamber, a bond—warm, teasing, affectionate—began to weave itself naturally between the prince and his future salis, marking the beginning of a lifelong jija-sali camaraderie.

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Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

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The Softness They Shared

Soft morning light spilled across the gardens of Mithila, bathing every leaf and blossom in a gentle glow. Dewdrops clung to the petals like tiny pearls, and the air carried the delicate scent of jasmine and fresh earth. In the middle of the garden paths, Urmila moved gracefully among the flowers, her fingertips brushing lightly against the blooms as though greeting old friends.

Lakshman followed a few steps behind, a wicker basket in hand—though he seemed far more focused on her than on the flowers. Every so often, he would pretend to inspect a plant, only to glance up again when she wasn’t looking.

Urmila finally turned, catching him in the act. “You know,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “we came here to collect flowers, not stare at them.”

Lakshman straightened immediately, looking terribly serious. “I am collecting,” he said. “I just haven’t… chosen which ones yet.”

“Oh?” she asked, laughter dancing in her eyes. “Is the prince of Ayodhya suddenly unsure of himself?”

He cleared his throat and bent over a bright marigold as if it required intense study. “I’m being selective,” he insisted. “These flowers are for the puja. They must be perfect.”

Urmila stepped closer, her skirts brushing softly against the grass. “Or perhaps,” she teased gently, “you’re distracted.”

Lakshman froze, still bent halfway toward the marigold. Slowly, he straightened and met her gaze. “I’m not distracted,” he said firmly. Then, after a pause: “Maybe just a little.”

Urmila laughed—soft, warm, and utterly disarming. She reached past him to pluck a cluster of jasmine. “Here,” she said, placing them in the basket he held. “Start with these. They’re simple, but beautiful.”

He looked down at the flowers, then at her. “Like you,” he said before he could stop himself.

The words hung in the air, surprising them both. Urmila’s hand paused midway to another blossom, and her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. She didn’t look away, though; instead, she smiled—a small, shy, but unmistakably pleased smile.

“You’re unusually sweet today,” she murmured.

Lakshman shifted his weight awkwardly, a little embarrassed by his own honesty. “You bring it out of me,” he said quietly. Then, in a braver voice, “I didn’t know gathering flowers could be… pleasant.”

Urmila pretended to examine a nearby hibiscus, though her smile had only grown. “That’s because you usually treat everything like a battle drill,” she teased. “Even gardens.”

“That’s not fair,” he protested. “I’m perfectly calm.”

“You just tried to interrogate a marigold.”

Lakshman sighed dramatically. “I’ll never hear the end of that, will I?”

“Not a chance.” She plucked the hibiscus and laid it gently in his basket. “But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

They continued walking through the garden, side by side, the basket slowly filling with colorful blossoms. Every now and then, their hands brushed as they reached for the same flower. Each touch lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.

At one point, Urmila stopped before a rose bush, reaching for a soft pink bloom—only to draw her hand back with a tiny hiss.

Lakshman immediately stepped closer. “Did it prick you?” he asked, concern tightening his voice.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, embarrassed. “Just a little thorn—”

But he had already taken her hand gently in his own, examining the tiny mark on her fingertip with a seriousness that made her heart flutter. “You should be careful,” he murmured.

“I am,” she whispered, looking at him rather than the rose.

Their eyes met, and for a moment the garden fell utterly silent around them, as though nature itself paused to watch.

Then Urmila playfully pulled her hand free. “We’re supposed to be working,” she reminded him softly, though her cheeks were still warm.

Lakshman exhaled, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Right. Working.”

They finished gathering the flowers, but neither hurried to leave. The morning stretched around them like a secret they shared—light, warm, and full of quiet affection.

When they finally walked back toward the palace, Lakshman glanced at the overflowing basket and said, “We gathered more than enough for the puja.”

Urmila nodded. “Yes. It seems today was… productive.”

He looked at her sidelong. “Very.”

Their hands brushed once more—this time not by accident—and they didn’t move them away.

please share your views

Originally posted by: cuteamanboy

image and sentence formation credit to chat gpt

The Softness They Shared

Soft morning light spilled across the gardens of Mithila, bathing every leaf and blossom in a gentle glow. Dewdrops clung to the petals like tiny pearls, and the air carried the delicate scent of jasmine and fresh earth. In the middle of the garden paths, Urmila moved gracefully among the flowers, her fingertips brushing lightly against the blooms as though greeting old friends.

Lakshman followed a few steps behind, a wicker basket in hand—though he seemed far more focused on her than on the flowers. Every so often, he would pretend to inspect a plant, only to glance up again when she wasn’t looking.

Urmila finally turned, catching him in the act. “You know,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “we came here to collect flowers, not stare at them.”

Lakshman straightened immediately, looking terribly serious. “I am collecting,” he said. “I just haven’t… chosen which ones yet.”

“Oh?” she asked, laughter dancing in her eyes. “Is the prince of Ayodhya suddenly unsure of himself?”

He cleared his throat and bent over a bright marigold as if it required intense study. “I’m being selective,” he insisted. “These flowers are for the puja. They must be perfect.”

Urmila stepped closer, her skirts brushing softly against the grass. “Or perhaps,” she teased gently, “you’re distracted.”

Lakshman froze, still bent halfway toward the marigold. Slowly, he straightened and met her gaze. “I’m not distracted,” he said firmly. Then, after a pause: “Maybe just a little.”

Urmila laughed—soft, warm, and utterly disarming. She reached past him to pluck a cluster of jasmine. “Here,” she said, placing them in the basket he held. “Start with these. They’re simple, but beautiful.”

He looked down at the flowers, then at her. “Like you,” he said before he could stop himself.

The words hung in the air, surprising them both. Urmila’s hand paused midway to another blossom, and her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. She didn’t look away, though; instead, she smiled—a small, shy, but unmistakably pleased smile.

“You’re unusually sweet today,” she murmured.

Lakshman shifted his weight awkwardly, a little embarrassed by his own honesty. “You bring it out of me,” he said quietly. Then, in a braver voice, “I didn’t know gathering flowers could be… pleasant.”

Urmila pretended to examine a nearby hibiscus, though her smile had only grown. “That’s because you usually treat everything like a battle drill,” she teased. “Even gardens.”

“That’s not fair,” he protested. “I’m perfectly calm.”

“You just tried to interrogate a marigold.”

Lakshman sighed dramatically. “I’ll never hear the end of that, will I?”

“Not a chance.” She plucked the hibiscus and laid it gently in his basket. “But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

They continued walking through the garden, side by side, the basket slowly filling with colorful blossoms. Every now and then, their hands brushed as they reached for the same flower. Each touch lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.

At one point, Urmila stopped before a rose bush, reaching for a soft pink bloom—only to draw her hand back with a tiny hiss.

Lakshman immediately stepped closer. “Did it prick you?” he asked, concern tightening his voice.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, embarrassed. “Just a little thorn—”

But he had already taken her hand gently in his own, examining the tiny mark on her fingertip with a seriousness that made her heart flutter. “You should be careful,” he murmured.

“I am,” she whispered, looking at him rather than the rose.

Their eyes met, and for a moment the garden fell utterly silent around them, as though nature itself paused to watch.

Then Urmila playfully pulled her hand free. “We’re supposed to be working,” she reminded him softly, though her cheeks were still warm.

Lakshman exhaled, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Right. Working.”

They finished gathering the flowers, but neither hurried to leave. The morning stretched around them like a secret they shared—light, warm, and full of quiet affection.

When they finally walked back toward the palace, Lakshman glanced at the overflowing basket and said, “We gathered more than enough for the puja.”

Urmila nodded. “Yes. It seems today was… productive.”

He looked at her sidelong. “Very.”

Their hands brushed once more—this time not by accident—and they didn’t move them away.

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