The chariots rolled back into Ayodhya, their wheels singing songs of joy. The city, upon hearing of Rama’s return with his bride, blossomed like a garden touched by spring. Streets were swept clean, homes adorned with colorful flowers, and golden lamps lit every doorway.
The people rushed to catch a glimpse of their beloved prince — Rama, who shone brighter than the sun, his face calm, his eyes kind. By his side walked Sita, gentle and radiant, like Goddess Lakshmi herself come down to earth. The citizens sang their praises, their voices rising like temple bells, “Victory to Rama! Glory to Sita!”
King Dasharatha’s heart swelled with pride and joy. He watched his sons — Rama, Lakshmana, Bharata, and Shatrughna — each with his bride, standing like four pillars of righteousness. His soul felt at peace, his dreams fulfilled.
For many days, Ayodhya celebrated. Feasts were prepared, dancers twirled in the royal courts, and the bards sang tales of Rama’s valor. The city glowed like a jewel under the vast sky.
In the quiet moments of these celebrations, a thought nestled deep in King Dasharatha’s heart. He had grown old, his shoulders tired from the burdens of rule. It was time, he thought, to hand over his kingdom to one who was worthy — to the prince loved by all, the gem of Ayodhya — Rama.
Gathering his ministers, Dasharatha spoke, his voice steady, his eyes shining with pride. “O wise ones, my heart is set. I wish to crown my eldest son, Rama, as the Yuvaraja — the crown prince of Ayodhya. He is virtuous, brave, and beloved by all. What say you, my counsel?”
The ministers smiled and nodded. “O King, your words fill us with joy. Who else but Rama, the jewel of our land, should be our future king? Under his rule, Ayodhya shall shine brighter than the stars.”
Dasharatha’s heart soared. Without delay, he ordered grand preparations. Heralds were sent through the city, announcing the joyous news, “Rejoice, O people of Ayodhya! Prince Rama shall be crowned the Yuvaraja. Come forth, all, and witness the dawn of a golden age!”
The city erupted in celebration. Markets bustled, music echoed through the air, and every home prepared for the grand event. The hearts of the people overflowed with love for Rama, for they knew — under his rule, justice would prevail, and peace would reign.
Kaushalya, Rama’s mother, wept tears of joy. She gave away jewels and gold in charity, blessing those who carried the news to her. “My Rama,” she whispered, “the pride of my soul, the light of my eyes — soon to be king.”
But far away, unaware of the storm about to rise, Bharata and Shatrughna were visiting their uncle in the land of Kekaya. Fate, with its secret plans, kept them from Ayodhya — for the wheel of destiny was turning, and not all hearts would rejoice at this news.
For deep within the palace, in chambers rich with silk and gold, the seeds of sorrow were about to be sown — a shadow creeping quietly, ready to change the course of a kingdom.