Lakshman's Daughter

The End

In the aftermath of Lakshman's demise, the palace was draped in sorrow, and the weight of grief pressed heavily on the heart of King Ram. The mourning period, declared for seven days, was a somber acknowledgment of the profound loss that echoed not just within the palace walls but across the entire kingdom.

Ram, now bearing the weight of a grief more profound than even Sita's demise, moved through the days with a heavy heart. The corridors of the palace, once filled with the echoes of joy and laughter, now resonated with a haunting silence.

As the mourning period neared its end, Ram sought Urmila, understanding that her pain was a mirror of his own. In his desire to alleviate some of her suffering, he granted her a boon — a divine gift that would ensure she remained a suhagan, never to be regarded as a widow.

"Urmila," he said, his voice carrying the weight of shared sorrow, "I grant you a boon. May you forever remain a Suhagan, never to be regarded as a widow. Your sacrifice shall be remembered as an eternal symbol of love and devotion."

Urmila, dignified in her grief, accepted the boon with a silent nod.

On the seventh day, as the sun cast its first rays on a kingdom shrouded in grief, Ram approached Urmila with a request that carried both the weight of responsibility and a deep understanding of her strength.

"Urmila," he spoke with a solemnity that mirrored the heaviness in his heart, "I have one final wish to ask of you. Be the guiding light for my sons, a pillar of strength for them. Be the Queen Mother they need. Guide them with the wisdom you've earned through trials untold. Your strength shall be their compass, and your love, their eternal refuge."

Urmila, her eyes reflecting both sorrow and a quiet resilience, nodded in acceptance of this profound responsibility. The title of Queen Mother was not just a ceremonial role; it was an acknowledgment of her wisdom, her strength, and her unwavering commitment to the Raghuvanshi legacy.

"As you wish, Lord Ram," Urmila replied, her voice steady despite the tumult within. "I will guide them with the love and wisdom that Lakshman and I shared. Their journey will be mine as well."

* * * * *

Days following the end of the mourning period, a profound decision rippled through Ayodhya. Ram, Shatrughna, and Bharata, the valiant brothers who had lived through the epics of joy and sorrow, announced their resolve to renounce mortal life and return to the celestial realms.

The citizens, still recovering from the grief of losing Lakshman, gathered in solemn anticipation. The palace, once a center of royal vibrancy, echoed with the weight of impending departure.

Ram, his voice steady and serene, addressed the gathering.

"The time has come for us to return to our celestial abode. Ayodhya, you have been our home, our heart, and our soul. But our time here has come to an end and we are summoned back to our rightful place which lies beyond these mortal realms. We leave Ayodhya in the capable hands of our sons, trusting that the legacy of righteousness and justice will endure."

The air was thick with a poignant mix of sorrow and reverence.

As Ram, the epitome of dharma, and his brothers walked towards the Sarayu River, the very river that had witnessed the joys and trials of their kingdom.

The people of Ayodhya gathered at the banks of the Sarayu River, a witness to the final chapter of their beloved rulers' earthly journey. The atmosphere was heavy with a mix of sorrow and reverence, for they were bidding farewell to not just kings but divine entities who had graced their mortal realm.

Ram, adorned in simple attire befitting his divine stature, led the procession. His eyes, deep pools of wisdom and compassion, scanned the faces of his subjects with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. Shathrugan and Bharath, following their elder brother, carried themselves with the same regality that had defined their lives in Ayodhya.

As they reached the sacred waters of the Sarayu, a collective hush fell over the assembly. The river seemed to hold its breath, eager to receive these extraordinary souls into its embrace.

The river seemed to welcome them, its gentle currents embracing the noble trio. The water, cool and clear, mirrored the reflections of lives lived with purpose and sacrifice. As they waded deeper, the river bore witness to the divine souls returning to their celestial abode.

The brothers, in unison, waded into the waters. The Sarayu, as if recognizing its divine guests, shimmered in response. The people of Ayodhya watched in a profound silence as the celestial trio submerged themselves into the sacred river, disappearing from mortal sight.

As the ripples settled, an air of both loss and transcendence lingered. The kingdom stood at a crossroads, and the responsibility of shaping its destiny now rested on the shoulders of the next generation.

Ayodhya, now bereft of its divine rulers, stood as a testament to the transient nature of life. The Sarayu River, having witnessed yet another epoch in the saga of the Raghu dynasty, continued its eternal flow, carrying the echoes of a kingdom's joys and sorrows, sacrifices and triumphs.

* * * * *

In the tranquil hours of the night, as the moon cast its gentle glow upon the palace, Somada began to experience the tender throes of childbirth.

Devansh stood by her side with unwavering support, his eyes reflecting both joy and concern. The night wore on, and the palace draped in silence, held its breath.

As the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, a lull settled over the room. Somada sought strenght from the  tender care of the midwives and the attendants. She summoned strength within her as she fought through the contractions that burnt her alive. With the breaking dawn, the cry of a newborn echoed—a melody of beginnings and continuations.

Devansh, with a heart full of pride, accepted the tiny bundle into his arms. The baby girl, a symbol of continuity, bore the essence of her lineage.

In a gesture of homage and reverence, Devansh chose a name that carried the weight of legacy. "Lakshmana," he whispered, a name that paid tribute to the great Lakshman, the valiant son of Ayodhya, whose sacrifice and nobility resonated through the ages.

"I promise to raise you, the way your grandfather Prince Lakshman raised your mother; with the same love, valor, and nobility."

THE END

[my thank you note will follow in the next chapter]