The sun rose gently, spreading golden rays over the dense forests where Rama, Lakshmana, and Sage Vishwamitra now journeyed. The trees whispered tales of old, the rivers glistened like silver threads, and the very air seemed to hum with the promise of adventure.
Vishwamitra, pleased with Rama’s bravery, led the princes deeper into the woods where the great yagna was to be performed. In the heart of a peaceful grove, sages gathered with kind faces and hopeful eyes. Their ashram was simple but shone with the strength of faith.
“O Rama, O Lakshmana,” said Vishwamitra, his voice filled with blessing, “This yagna is sacred. It must be protected until the last grain of offering is made. Stand guard, my valiant ones, and let no demon touch this fire.”
The yagna began, flames dancing high into the sky, carrying the sages’ prayers to the heavens. Rama and Lakshmana, with their bows strung tight, stood watch — eyes sharp, hearts steady.
Days passed in peace until the sky suddenly darkened. Thunder growled, and a foul wind carried the stench of evil. From the clouds above, two monstrous figures appeared — Mareecha and Subahu, their eyes burning red, their laughter sending shivers down every spine.
With cruel hands, they hurled flesh and blood, trying to defile the sacred fire. The sages trembled, but Rama stood firm.
Like a bolt of lightning, he released his arrow — swift, sure, and glowing with divine power. Mareecha was struck and flung far, far away, crashing into the distant sea, while Subahu was engulfed in flames and reduced to ashes.
The skies cleared, the winds calmed, and the yagna was saved. The sages wept tears of joy, their hearts full of gratitude. “Blessed are we,” they cried, “to witness such valor.”
Vishwamitra smiled with pride. “Rama,” he said, “you have done what even the gods would praise. You have proven yourself not just as a prince, but as a protector of dharma.”
Rama bowed humbly, his eyes shining not with pride, but with the quiet light of duty fulfilled.
The yagna completed, the earth itself seemed to rejoice. The trees swayed gracefully, the rivers sang, and even the sky appeared clearer than before. The sages showered blessings upon Rama and Lakshmana, wishing them strength for the journey ahead.
Vishwamitra, with a gleam in his eye, turned to the brothers. “Come now, brave ones. Our journey is not over. There is a grand city awaiting us — Mithila, ruled by the noble King Janaka. There, a mighty bow lies in waiting, and destiny itself will beckon.”
With hearts light and steps eager, Rama and Lakshmana followed their sage, unaware that fate was weaving a beautiful tale — of love, of trials, and of a bond that would echo through time.
Through the dense woods, along winding rivers, and under skies painted with hues of dawn and dusk, they traveled — the forest now a little less wild, as if nature itself bowed in respect to the young princes who had conquered evil with courage and grace.