In the golden city of Ayodhya, time flowed like a gentle river. Seasons changed, and the four royal princes blossomed like the flowers of spring. Under the wise guidance of Sage Vashishta, they learned the sacred scriptures, the art of war, and the secrets of the bow and arrow. They rode swift horses, tamed wild elephants, and hunted in the forests — brave, skilled, and noble.
Among them, Rama shone like the sun at dawn. He was gentle in speech, fierce in battle, and beloved by all. Wherever he walked, hearts bowed before him. Lakshmana, his shadow and his soul, followed him like the faithful moon follows the sun. Bharata, noble and kind, walked with wisdom beyond his years, while Shatrughna, ever loyal, stood by Bharata’s side.
The four brothers loved one another dearly. They were not merely siblings but four parts of one heart, four lamps glowing with the same flame. People of Ayodhya watched them with pride, whispering among themselves, “With these princes, our kingdom shall know no sorrow.”
One day, as King Dasharatha sat in his royal court, the air shimmered with a new presence. Into the hall walked Sage Vishwamitra — tall, radiant, and powerful, his eyes glowing with the wisdom of many lifetimes. The king rose swiftly and welcomed him with folded hands, “O revered sage, your presence blesses my kingdom. Command me, and your wish shall be my duty.”
Vishwamitra smiled, but his voice carried the weight of great purpose. “O King, I have come seeking your promise. I prepare to perform a yagna — a sacred fire ritual — to bring peace and prosperity to the world. But dark forces trouble me. Two Rakshasas, Mareecha and Subahu, descend like shadows upon the yagna, defiling it with showers of blood and flesh. My powers of peace prevent me from fighting them. Only your son Rama can defeat these demons.”
The king trembled. “O Sage, Rama is but a boy. How can I send him to face such horrors? Send my armies, my finest warriors — but not my Rama.”
A shadow of anger crossed Vishwamitra’s face. “Do you break your promise, O King? I seek not armies but the prince himself. Fear not — Rama is born for greatness. Let him face this trial.”
Sage Vashishta, wise and calm, stepped forward. “O King, do not hesitate. This is no ordinary sage’s request. Vishwamitra wishes to guide Rama on the path of his destiny. Let him go. Greatness awaits him.”
Tears welled in Dasharatha’s eyes, but he bowed to fate. He called Rama and, seeing his young son’s calm face, felt pride and sorrow mingling in his heart.
Lakshmana, hearing of Rama’s journey, could not bear to stay behind. “Where my brother goes, I shall follow. I am his sword and his shield.” And so, with blessings from their father, Rama and Lakshmana left Ayodhya, their first steps taken on a path that would change the world.
Barefoot, they walked by Vishwamitra’s side, crossing the mighty Sarayu and the sacred Ganga, leaving behind the comforts of their golden palace. The forests welcomed them with the rustling of leaves and the songs of unseen birds.
It was there, deep in the forest’s heart, that they met their first trial. A demoness named Taraka, fierce and terrible, ruled those woods. Her roar shook the skies, and the trees trembled. She charged at Rama, her eyes burning with hatred.
With steady hands and a calm heart, Rama raised his bow. A single arrow flew like a streak of lightning and struck Taraka down. The forest sighed in relief as her evil shadow vanished.
Vishwamitra smiled with pride and blessed Rama, gifting him celestial weapons — mighty astras, ageless and powerful, each with a name and soul. “Use them well, O Rama,” the sage said, “for the path ahead is long.”
And so, under the watchful gaze of the stars, the two brothers walked forward — their hearts fearless, their minds pure — ready for the adventures the world would soon unfold.