B R Chopra Ramayan - Page 35

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A Meal Made of Moments

The warm glow of the oil lamps flickered against the carved stone walls, bathing the chamber in a gentle amber light. Urmila sat gracefully on the floor, her sari pooling like molten gold around her. She watched her family with a soft smile—one of those smiles that bloomed naturally when the heart was too full.

Before her, Angad and Chandraketu sat cross-legged, their small bodies wrapped in bright garments, trying their best to look serious as they waited for their father to begin the meal. Their seriousness, of course, lasted only until a grain of rice slipped from Chandraketu’s fingers and landed on Angad’s knee.

Angad tried to stifle a giggle. Chandraketu gave him a look that was meant to be stern… but turned into giggling, too.

Lakshman, already reaching for a pinch of salt to sprinkle on his food, paused and looked at his sons with raised brows. “What mischief before the meal?” he asked, though amusement tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Nothing, Tat,” Angad said far too quickly.

“Nothing at all,” Chandraketu echoed, nodding vigorously.

“Oh? Then why is the rice running away?” Lakshman asked, pretending to inspect the floor.

Urmila laughed softly, adjusting the younger boy’s collar. “They’ve been waiting patiently for you to start, Aryaputra. Let them eat before their giggles turn into growls.”

At that, Chandraketu immediately pressed a hand to his stomach. “It already growled once, Ma,” he whispered loudly, as though confiding a secret.

Lakshman chuckled and finally tasted the first bite, closing his eyes in appreciation. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Just the way your Ma makes it.”

Angad leaned forward eagerly. “Can we start now?”

“Go ahead,” Lakshman said, gesturing with an indulgent nod.

The boys dove into their plates—carefully at first, then with the enthusiastic abandon only children possess. Urmila placed a gentle hand on Lakshman’s arm. He glanced at her, and for a moment, the world grew still. Through all the years of duty, separation, and sacrifice, these small moments felt like life weaving itself back together.

Chandraketu held up a tiny pinch of food toward Lakshman. Tat, try this! I mixed everything on the thali together. It tastes… interesting.”

Lakshman accepted the bite, bracing himself. His eyes widened as he swallowed. “It certainly tastes… interesting.”

Angad burst into laughter, almost tipping over his cup. Urmila covered her face, shaking with mirth.

“See?” Chandraketu said, puffing his chest proudly. “I made it special.”

Lakshman ruffled his hair. “You did. And someday, you will be a great warrior and a great cook, both.”

“Like you?” Chandraketu asked.

Lakshman smiled gently. “Better than me.”

The family gathered closer around the trays—laughing, sharing bites, teasing, and tasting—while the lamps burned steadily, as though guarding this little island of peace. In that golden glow, surrounded by love and gentle chatter, it seemed as though the whole world was finally exactly as it should be.

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Letters Beneath the Ashoka Tree

Far away in Mithila, the evening sky glowed in soft shades of rose and amber, as if the heavens themselves were painted in the delicate lines of Mithila art. The palace courtyard was fragrant with jasmine and tulsi, and gentle music drifted from the women’s chamber where artisans sang as they worked.

King Janak sat beneath the ancient ashoka tree in the courtyard, a handwritten scroll resting on his lap. Queen Sunaina joined him with a fond sigh, her bangles chiming as she settled beside him.

“You’ve read the letter at least five times,” she teased, adjusting the veil over her shoulder. “If you read it again, you will memorize every crease.”

Janak chuckled softly. “Can you blame me? Urmila writes so rarely these days. And she says the boys loved the gifts we sent.”

Sunaina’s eyes shimmered with grandmotherly pride. “Of course they did. Angad always loved my painted animals. And Chandraketu… he must be trying to shoot every tree in Ayodhya by now.”

Janak laughed, his chest rumbling warmly. “If he shoots even half as eagerly as Lakshman did at that age, Ayodhya’s gardens will have no fruits left.”

Sunaina leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. “Do you think they will really visit soon? I miss their voices… their footsteps thundering across the halls.”

“Thunder?” Janak raised an eyebrow. “Sunaina, you make them sound like tiny elephants.”

She swatted his arm lightly. “They are princes, not elephants! But still—when they run, even the palace guards smile.”

Janak’s gaze softened as he set the scroll aside. “It’s been so long since we saw them. Angad must be nearly as tall as Urmila was at that age.”

“And Chandraketu…” Sunaina’s voice grew tender. “We’ve only seen him as a baby. I wonder what he looks like now.”

Janak closed his eyes for a moment, imagining his family in Ayodhya—their daughter grown into a graceful queen, their grandchildren laughing at Lakshman’s feet, the warmth of a household finally at peace.

“It is strange,” he murmured, “to think how much time passed while Lakshman and Urmila were apart. My heart still aches for what they lost.”

Sunaina nodded, her expression thoughtful. “But look how the Gods have returned joy to them. Sometimes I think the boys carry two hearts each—one for the mischief of childhood and one to make up for the years of silence between their parents.”

Janak smiled gently. “Well said.”

Just then, an attendant approached and bowed. “Maharaj, Queen Sunaina, the preparations for the children’s chambers are underway. Shall we continue with the arrangements?”

Sunaina brightened instantly. “Yes, yes! Make sure there are fresh marigolds in both rooms. Angad loves the smell.”

“And place the carved swing in Chandraketu’s chamber,” Janak added. “He will enjoy it.”

As the attendant bowed and left, Sunaina clasped her hands together excitedly. “Oh, and the garden! We must get the gardener to prepare the small pond. Remember how Urmila used to stare at her reflection there?”

Janak’s eyes sparkled with nostalgia. “She used to dip her little toes into the water, and then come crying when the fish nibbled on them.”

Sunaina laughed, hiding her laughter behind her hand. “Our poor shy daughter. She always pretended she wasn’t frightened.”

Janak’s expression grew thoughtful again. “Do you think she is truly happy, Sunaina? After everything?”

Sunaina cupped her husband’s hand. “Lakshman loves her deeply. That is clear. And their sons… you saw the words in her letter—she is full of laughter now. My heart feels at peace.”

Janak nodded slowly. “Then all the more reason to bring them here. Let them see the home where their mother once played. Let them know this land as their own.”

Sunaina’s face glowed. “They will run through these gardens, climb these trees… and the artisans will spoil them with sweets and stories.”

“And I,” Janak said proudly, “will teach Angad how to carve wood properly.”

“And I,” Sunaina added, “will make Chandraketu paint his first Mithila border. Even princes must learn patience.”

Janak chuckled. “You say that as though he will sit still for even a moment.”

“Oh hush,” Sunaina said with a playful nudge. “If he won’t sit still, I’ll tie him down with my dupatta.”

Janak snorted with laughter.

Then, after a pause, his voice softened. “Sunaina… do you ever think about the future of Mithila? What will become of it when we are gone? Sometimes I wish…”

He trailed off.

Sunaina looked at him gently. “You wish the boys were here more often.”

Janak nodded.

“They will be,” she said, her voice certain. “Mithila may not be their kingdom… but it is their home. A part of their blood. They will return again and again.”

Janak smiled with quiet relief.

Just then, a soft breeze swept through the courtyard, stirring the marigolds and rustling the leaves of the ashoka tree. The lamp by their side flickered, casting warm light on the old stone walls adorned with stories painted generations ago.

Janak placed his hand over Sunaina’s. “When they come,” he said softly, “let us welcome them with everything Mithila is. Its beauty. Its peace. Its love.”

Sunaina’s eyes shone. “Yes. Let their childhood memories bloom here just as Urmila’s did.”

They sat together beneath the ashoka tree, watching the sky darken into a velvet blanket sprinkled with stars, imagining the sound of tiny feet and joyous laughter echoing through Mithila once again.

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The Night Speaks about Lost Dawn

The night deepened around the palace courtyard, the stars shimmering softly overhead. For a while, Janak and Sunaina sat in peaceful silence—until a memory, long buried but never forgotten, drifted into Sunaina’s heart.

She drew a slow breath. “Aryaputra… speaking of our daughters… do you ever wonder… about her?”

Janak did not need her to say the name. The sorrow in her voice revealed it instantly.

His eyes lowered. “Our Jyeshtha daughter … our Sita.”

The lamps flickered as if bowing to the weight of her name.

Sunaina’s fingers tightened around the end of her dupatta. “Years have passed, lord. Yet sometimes, I still wake in the night thinking of her… thinking of the day she left Ayodhya… alone.”

Janak’s jaw clenched. “Not alone. She carried our grandchildren within her.” His voice cracked—not with anger, but with an ache too deep and too old.

Sunaina turned to him, her eyes brimming. “To think… she was with child. And she bore that burden without complaint. Without a word.”

“A queen,” Janak murmured, “walking into the wilderness as though it were her palace. Carrying life inside her, yet abandoned by the world she served.”

The breeze whispered through the ashoka leaves above them.

There had been no justice they could offer then. No kingdom to challenge Ayodhya. No father’s arms strong enough to shield his daughter from fate.

“I sometimes imagine her,” Sunaina said softly, “not as a queen… but as a mother. Alone among the trees. One hand on her womb, whispering lullabies to the children no one knew she carried.”

Janak closed his eyes, the image piercing him.
Sita, walking barefoot on forest soil.
Sita, placing a palm on her growing belly.
Sita, hiding her pain with dignity sharper than any blade.

“You know,” he whispered, “I used to dream that she built a small hut. That she would sit outside in the evenings, weaving garlands for the children inside her womb. That she hummed the old songs you taught her as a girl.”

Sunaina wiped a tear that escaped down her cheek. “I think of the moment she must have felt her children kick… and realized she wouldn’t have her mother beside her. No sister. No family.”

Her voice trembled.

“I should have gone to her, Janak. I should have brought her back.”

Janak gently took her hands. “Sunaina… she never sent for us.”

“Because she wanted to protect us,” Sunaina said bitterly. “Even then. Even when she was the one who needed comfort.”

Janak lowered his head. “Sometimes strength is a curse for those born with too much of it.”

A moment passed where neither spoke. The quiet hum of night insects filled the air.

Then Sunaina whispered, “Do you ever wonder… what our grandchildren looked like, when they were born?”

Janak swallowed hard. “Every day.”

He reached up, touching the ashoka tree trunk—the same tree beneath which Sita was found as a baby, nestled in the soil.

“She entered our lives from the earth,” he said. “And after exile… she returned to it.”

Sunaina shivered slightly. “But she raised her sons alone. She must have taught them everything. Values. Courage. Love.”

Janak nodded. “A mother like her… even the forest must have felt blessed.”

Sunaina closed her eyes. “Two little boys. Born in the wilderness. Learning to walk on leaves instead of marble floors… holding their mother’s fingers instead of a servant’s hand… listening to the songs of birds instead of royal bards…”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

Janak gently wiped it away.

“Do you think,” she asked softly, “that she was afraid?”

Janak’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes. She is human. But she was also Sita. She must have held herself together so her sons never saw her fear.”

Sunaina nodded slowly, imagining her eldest daughter sitting beside a small fire, cradling two infants against her chest, singing lullabies into the night.

“She carries courage,” Sunaina murmured, “not just in her heart… but in her womb.”

Janak’s hands tightened into fists—not in anger, but in helpless grief.

“Mithila remembers her,” he said quietly. “The forests remember her. The earth remembers her.”

“And we remember her,” Sunaina whispered.

“ What must have been Ram going through through... the burden of kingship is heavier than any war,” Janak shed away tears from the eyes.

“ You are right... Ram is one of the greatest person, world has ever known, the world is so cruel for a serene couple like them”, Sunaina put a hand on her chin, imagining their pain.

They sat for a long time, letting their memories breathe in the night air—memories of a daughter they could not save, a mother who suffered in silence, a queen who bore exile with dignity, and children who entered the world among trees and birds instead of royal drums.

Finally, Sunaina leaned her head against Janak’s shoulder.

“We could not protect her,” she said, voice trembling. “But maybe… maybe we can shower all the love we lost on Angad and Chandraketu. On Urmila’s sons. On the joy fate returned to us.”

Janak smiled sadly. “Yes. We will love them enough for the grandchildren we never Held. We will meet Sita and her children too someday ”

They sat beneath the ancient tree in silence, sharing a grief too deep for words… yet a love strong enough to heal.

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Gifts Woven from Home

As the laughter slowly faded into soft smiles and the boys resumed eating, Urmila gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She watched her sons for a moment—their bright faces glowing in the lamplight—and then clapped her hands lightly.

“I almost forgot,” she said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Your grandparents from Mithila have sent special gifts for both of you.”

Angad froze with a bite halfway to his mouth. Chandraketu’s eyes widened so dramatically that Lakshman nearly choked on a laugh.

“Gifts?” Angad whispered as though the very word were sacred.
“From Nana and Nani?” Chandraketu added, scooting closer on his knees.

“Yes,” Urmila said, savoring their anticipation. “They arrived just this afternoon.”

Lakshman leaned back slightly, crossing his arms with theatrical seriousness. “Hmm. I’m not sure we should give them the gifts yet.”

Both boys whipped around to stare at him in horror.

“Why not, Pitashree?!” Angad’s voice cracked with worry.

Lakshman stroked his chin dramatically. “Well… I’m not entirely convinced the two young princes of Ayodhya have finished their meal properly.”

Chandraketu immediately stuffed a large bite into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out like a squirrel’s. Angad copied him, nearly spilling half his rice in his haste.

Urmila pressed a hand to her lips to hide her laughter. “Slow down! Nana would scold you if he saw you eating so fast. Gifts should be received with calm minds.”

Both boys swallowed loudly and nodded, sitting up straight as if they were in the royal court itself.

“Good,” she said, rising gracefully. “Then wait here. I will bring them.”

But before she could stand fully, Angad tugged gently at her hand. “Ma… is it something we can play with?”

“And can we take it outside?” Chandraketu asked.

“And is it shiny?” Angad added, eyes hopeful.

“And is it big?” Chandraketu chimed in, leaning forward eagerly.

Lakshman laughed, shaking his head. “If you keep guessing, your Ma will never get to show you anything.”

Urmila chuckled and gently extricated her hand. “Patience, my princes. Like your Nana says—gifts are to be discovered, not guessed.”

She walked to a carved wooden chest near the back wall, its surface dusted with jasmine petals. The boys scrambled after her but Lakshman cleared his throat meaningfully. They froze, inch by inch, and returned to their seats, sitting absolutely still—except for their feet, which bounced in barely contained excitement.

Urmila lifted the lid of the chest and reached inside, pulling out two wrapped bundles tied neatly with Mithila-style red-thread braids.

The moment she turned around, both boys gasped.
“Two gifts!”
“For each of us!”

Urmila knelt again, setting the bundles before her sons.

“These are from your Nana Janak and your Nani Sunaina,” she said softly. “They remembered that you both have grown taller since the last time we visited Mithila.”

That alone made Angad sit taller. Chandraketu stretched his neck as much as possible.

Lakshman chuckled. “Open them slowly. Nana believes care and patience honor the giver.”

The boys nodded with solemn understanding and then—after exactly one second—began untying the threads with the speed of two squirrels attacking a mango.

Inside Chandraketu’s bundle lay a beautifully carved wooden bow, small but sturdy, its surface smooth and polished. Tiny mithila-style patterns decorated the handle—peacocks and vines etched with loving detail.

Chandraketu inhaled sharply. “A bow… a real bow!”

“And this,” Urmila added, picking up a small cloth pouch tied to the bundle, “is a set of soft-tipped practice arrows. Nani insisted on the soft tips.”

Chandraketu grinned, already holding the bow as if he were standing beside Lakshman on a battlefield. “I will practice every day!”

Angad’s package revealed a different treasure—a set of small wooden animal figures, painted in intricate Mithila colors. A lion with swirling patterns, a deer decorated with delicate floral designs, an elephant with sunbursts on its ears.

Angad’s eyes sparkled. “Nani remembered that I like carving! She sent these?”

“And your Nana carved the lion himself,” Urmila said warmly. “He said it should protect your study table.”

Angad hugged the lion to his chest. “It will!”

Lakshman watched the boys’ joy, feeling warmth spread through him like the soft glow of dawn. These were the moments he had once feared he would never have.

Chandraketu hopped onto his knees and showed Lakshman the bow. “Pitashree, will you teach me how to shoot properly? Like you taught the soldiers?”

Lakshman touched the boy’s cheek. “Yes. Tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

“Can I come too?” Angad asked, clutching the lion.

“You?” Chandraketu teased. “You always miss the target!”

Angad stuck out his tongue. “I hit it sometimes!”

Lakshman placed a hand on both their heads. “You will both come. And both learn. Each in your own way.”

Urmila watched them with adoration, feeling her heart swell. For all the distant lands and heavy duties that filled their lives, these simple evenings made everything whole again.

“Ma,” Angad said suddenly, “did Nana and Nani send something for you too?”

Urmila’s smile softened. “They did.”

“What is it?” Chandraketu asked eagerly.

Urmila looked at Lakshman, a gentle sparkle in her eyes. “A letter from Nani… asking when I will bring her grandchildren to Mithila again.”

Both boys shot upright, eyes blazing with excitement.

“Ma! When will we go?”
“Can we go soon?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tonight??”

Lakshman laughed so hard he clutched his stomach.

“We will go,” Urmila said, pulling her sons close, “very soon. Nana and Nani are waiting for you. And Mithila loves welcoming noisy little princes.”

“We’re not noisy,” Angad protested.

“We’re very quiet,” Chandraketu said, nodding with exaggerated seriousness.

Lakshman raised an eyebrow. “Quiet? You two? The entire palace hears you even when you’re whispering.”

The boys exchanged guilty grins.

“But,” Lakshman added, leaning forward to kiss their foreheads, “we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The family drew close again, the gifts scattered lovingly around them, the food forgotten for the moment as joy filled the room. Outside, the night grew deeper—but inside, wrapped in warmth, laughter, and inherited love from Mithila, everything glowed with the gentle light of home.