With the war won and Sita’s purity shining bright as the morning sun, Rama’s heart finally knew peace. Yet, one longing still called to him — the land of his birth, the golden city of Ayodhya, where his people waited and wept for their exiled prince.
Vibhishana, now crowned the king of Lanka, stood before Rama with folded hands. “O noble Rama, stay and rule this kingdom. Lanka is yours.”
But Rama smiled gently, his eyes soft with longing. “O Vibhishana, I thank you. But my heart belongs to Ayodhya, to my mother’s embrace, to the land where my father once ruled. I must return.”
Hearing this, the gods themselves rejoiced. At that moment, the celestial chariot Pushpaka appeared — a gift from Kubera, the lord of wealth — shining like the sun, swift as the wind, and adorned with jewels.
Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana ascended the chariot, their hearts full, their souls ready for the journey home. As the chariot rose into the sky, they gazed down upon the earth — the rivers, the forests, the mountains — all bowing in respect.
They flew over Kishkindha, where Sugriva and Hanuman joined them in joy. They flew over forests where the trees whispered blessings, over rivers that shimmered like silver threads, and at last, toward the land of Kosala.
Meanwhile, in Ayodhya, Bharata waited — clad in simple robes, ruling not as a king but as a servant to Rama’s sandals, placed upon the throne.
Each morning, he gazed at the road leading to the forest, his heart praying, “Come, O Rama. Come home.”
One day, as dawn broke, the skies shone brighter, and the winds carried a new fragrance. Word reached Bharata — Rama was returning.
With trembling hands and tear-filled eyes, Bharata rushed to the outskirts of the city, falling to his knees as the Pushpaka Vimana descended like a golden cloud.
Rama stepped forth, radiant and noble, his arms open wide. Bharata wept, embracing his brother. “O Rama, Ayodhya breathes once more. Come, take your rightful place.”
The people of Ayodhya gathered, their faces glowing with joy, their eyes filled with tears. Flowers rained from the skies, conch shells blew, and the city came alive — brighter, grander, more beautiful than ever before.
Rama walked through the streets, Sita by his side, Lakshmana close behind — greeted by cheers, songs, and blessings. Mothers blessed him, children danced, and the elders wept with joy.
And so, Rama returned — not just as a prince, but as a king, as the very soul of Ayodhya.
The long journey had ended, and the golden city had found its light once more.
But one final moment awaited — the crowning of Rama, the beginning of a new age where truth, love, and dharma would reign forever.