The city of Mithila bloomed like a garden in spring, decked in silks and golden flowers, for the wedding of Sita and Rama was to be celebrated — a union blessed by the gods, awaited by the earth itself.
King Dasharatha, upon hearing the joyful news, journeyed from Ayodhya with his queens, sons, and a grand retinue. The roads shimmered with light, as if the stars themselves had descended to witness this divine marriage.
At the grand palace of Mithila, King Janaka welcomed them with arms wide open, his heart swelling with pride. “O King of Ayodhya, behold! The heavens have smiled upon us. Your son, Rama, has won my daughter’s hand with valor and grace. Let us unite our noble houses in joy.”
The ceremonies began, sacred chants echoing through the air as the holy fire blazed bright. Draped in silk, adorned with gold, Rama and Sita sat side by side, their eyes shyly meeting, hearts already bound in silent vows.
As the priest chanted the mantras, Rama took Sita’s hand, and the gods themselves leaned down from the heavens to watch. Flowers rained from unseen skies, and even the wind carried the fragrance of blessings.
Alongside them, Lakshmana wedded the gentle Urmila, Sita’s beloved sister, while Bharata and Shatrughna were united with Mandavi and Shrutakirti — daughters of King Janaka’s noble brother.
The palace sparkled with music and laughter. Gifts flowed like rivers, and the people sang songs of joy. Cows were gifted, gold was shared, and the streets of Mithila overflowed with happiness.
With hearts full and duties done, Sage Vishwamitra took his leave, blessing Rama and Lakshmana before returning to his forest home. The royal family, their bonds now sealed in love, began their journey back to Ayodhya, their chariots rolling over roads lined with cheering crowds.
But fate had one more trial in store.
As they journeyed, the skies darkened, and the earth trembled. From the shadows appeared a figure fierce and mighty — Parashurama, the warrior sage, known far and wide for his wrath and power. In his hands, he held an enormous bow, greater even than the one Rama had broken.
With eyes blazing, Parashurama roared, “I have heard of the young prince who broke Shiva’s bow. Let him now string mine, if he dares. Only then shall I believe in his strength.”
Dasharatha trembled, his heart sinking. “O mighty sage, spare us. My son meant no disrespect. He is but a young boy.”
But Parashurama would not be pacified. “Let Rama face me, or I shall unleash my fury upon this land.”
Calm and unshaken, Rama stepped forward, his voice gentle as the morning breeze. “O revered sage, I am ready. Give me your bow, and I shall try my best.”
Parashurama, seething with pride, handed over his celestial weapon.
With reverence, Rama lifted the mighty bow. In a breath, he strung it with ease and fixed an arrow upon it. The skies fell silent, and even the winds paused, watching this moment unfold.
Rama turned to Parashurama, his eyes filled with calm power. “O sage, I seek not to harm you. Tell me, where shall I release this arrow?”
Parashurama, his pride shattered, realized at once — Rama was no ordinary man. Bowing low, he spoke, “O Rama, you are divine. Forgive my pride. Release the arrow upon my anger and my pride, so that I may find peace.”
With a smile, Rama released the arrow into the skies, and the earth sighed in relief.
Parashurama, humbled and purified, bowed once more and vanished into the forests, never to raise his anger again.
The skies brightened, the path cleared, and the royal family continued their journey to Ayodhya, where joy, love, and celebrations awaited them — unaware of the trials that destiny still held in its secret folds.