The mighty Ravana lay fallen, his pride shattered and his kingdom silent. The war was over — the skies cleared, the winds sang, and the earth rejoiced. But Rama’s heart was heavy, for the moment he longed for had not yet come — the moment he would see his beloved Sita once more.
Vibhishana, Ravana’s noble brother who had chosen dharma, approached Rama with folded hands. “O Rama, the kingdom of Lanka is yours. But first, let me bring Sita, who waits in sorrow.”
Rama nodded, his eyes filled with longing and pain. “Bring her, O Vibhishana, but let her come bathed and adorned — for she is no prisoner, but a queen.”
Soon, Sita was brought forth, dressed in silks, her hair adorned with flowers. Her face, pale with grief, brightened at the sight of Rama — her Rama — standing tall and radiant.
Tears welled in Sita’s eyes as she whispered, “My lord, I have waited for you through every sorrow, through every cruel word and dark night. My heart knew no one but you.”
But Rama’s face remained solemn. He spoke softly, yet his words struck like thunder. “O Sita, the world has watched this war, and questions may rise about your purity. To silence every doubt, prove your chastity — not for me, but for all who may speak in ignorance.”
Sita gasped, her heart pierced by sorrow. Yet, with a calm born of unwavering faith, she turned to Lakshmana. “Prepare the sacred fire. Let Agni, the god of fire, be my witness. If my heart and soul have remained pure, let the flames embrace me without harm.”
The vanaras wept, the earth trembled, and even the gods held their breath as Sita stepped into the blazing fire — her eyes closed, her lips softly chanting Rama’s name.
The flames roared high, wrapping around her slender form — but not a hair upon her head was harmed, not a single fold of her silk burned.
From within the fire rose Agni himself, radiant and divine. With folded hands, he spoke, “O Rama, Sita is pure — as pure as the sacred river, as pure as the morning sun. Doubt her not, for she has suffered greatly, yet remained true.”
Tears filled Rama’s eyes as he rushed forward, embracing Sita with all the love he had held within his heart. “Forgive me, my beloved. I tested you not from doubt, but to silence the world forever. You are my honor, my soul, my Sita.”
The skies burst forth with flowers, the gods sang, and the earth smiled — for love had triumphed, sorrow had ended, and Sita was once more where she belonged — in Rama’s arms.
Thus, the war was truly over, and peace returned. But one journey still remained — the journey home, where Ayodhya waited, longing for its prince, its queen, and the golden age that was yet to come.