Why Rama’s Choice Still Matters
What this moment reveals about faith and destiny.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but my hands swept the steps of Ayodhya the day Lord Rama returned.
My name is Suman. I was born in a stone house near the market, the son of a potter. When Rama—prince of Ayodhya, son of King Dasharatha—was exiled, I was a boy. Now I’m old, and my hands tremble when I carry water, but I remember that morning like it was breath against my face.
Fourteen winters had come and gone. Everyone knew the story—how Queen Kaikeyi demanded Rama’s exile and her son Bharata become king. How Rama, his wife Sita, and his brother Lakshmana walked into the forest. No soldiers. No gold. Just dharma—the sacred duty—on his back.
Some say dharma is law. Or truth. But that day I learned it was choice.
The sun hadn’t risen yet. I stood by the city gates, where Brahmins were tying marigolds to tall bamboo arches. Ganesha idols had been placed near every threshold, for wisdom, for blessing. Bells clanged softly against the morning wind.
Then I saw him.
Not in a chariot. Not on an elephant.
He came on foot.
Clothes of forest bark still on his shoulders. Hair tied in matted locks. Beside him, Sita walked lightly, serene as moonlight. Her eyes were clear. You could see she had suffered. And yet—there was joy in her step. Lakshmana walked behind them, his face proud, unflinching as ever.
But Bharata—King Bharata, the one given the kingdom—he was already there, kneeling.
He had ruled Ayodhya during Rama’s exile, but not as king. He placed Rama’s sandals on the throne and led as caretaker, waiting. Every day, he fasted, prayed, swore he would return the kingdom when his brother returned.
And now Rama was home.
Everyone expected celebration. Cheers. Flags. But silence fell as Bharata stood and offered the crown.
I was close enough to see Rama’s face.
He looked at the crown for a long time. It trembled slightly in Bharata’s hands.
“No,” Rama said gently. “The kingdom is not mine until I have earned it again.”
Confused, people murmured. Even Lakshmana looked surprised. But then we saw: Rama turned and raised Sita’s hand.
“I return not to rule first, but to restore.”
That was the choice.
He wasn’t just taking back a throne. He was setting a broken city right—not through force or grief—but through faith and dharma. He accepted kingship only after purifying the past. Only after walking through the fire—literally and spiritually—with Sita.
I heard a woman behind me whisper, “But why didn’t he come in glory?”
Because glory wasn’t the point.
It was true. Rama had defeated Ravana—the demon king who had captured Sita, taking her to Lanka. The battle was long. Fierce. Rama’s army fought with monkeys, bears, men—led by Hanuman, the great devotee whose love destroyed mountains. After victory, Rama could’ve entered the city as a hero on a chariot of gold.
But instead, he came walking. Not to prove power—but to prove truth.
That day, I saw transformation. Not just in him. In us.
Ayodhya had waited—not just for a king, but a reckoning. We’d watched our leaders fall to temptation. We remembered how even Queen Kaikeyi, loving but misguided, let her own fear taint dharma. Now, finally, Rama returned not to punish her—but to forgive. He bowed before his stepmother, and she wept.
I tell my grandson this, every year at Diwali. That’s the day Rama came home.
“But why didn’t Rama throw Kaikeyi out?” my grandson asks. “She hurt him.”
And I say, “Because faith is not revenge. Because truth is not loud. And because dharma is not always easy.”
Ganesha watches from the threshold—and I tell my grandson that wisdom sits in silence before it speaks.
Such is the weight of the Ramayana—our great epic, older than time, flowing like the Ganga across generations. And though the Mahabharata teaches through war, the Ramayana teaches through patience. Through endurance.
That’s why Rama matters.
Not because he was perfect, but because he chose the hard path—the path of restoration over recognition.
He came home not to reclaim his identity, but to renew the soul of Ayodhya.
And that, child, is what true kings do.
That is faith.
That is dharma.
And that is why, though the crowns fall and empires fade, Rama still stands—beside Sita, beside truth.
Because kingship is not in the coronation. It’s in the choice.
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Keywords: Ramayana, faith, dharma, Sita, Ganesha, Mahabharata, truth
Word Count: 588
Why Rama’s Choice Still Matters
What this moment reveals about faith and destiny.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but my hands swept the steps of Ayodhya the day Lord Rama returned.
My name is Suman. I was born in a stone house near the market, the son of a potter. When Rama—prince of Ayodhya, son of King Dasharatha—was exiled, I was a boy. Now I’m old, and my hands tremble when I carry water, but I remember that morning like it was breath against my face.
Fourteen winters had come and gone. Everyone knew the story—how Queen Kaikeyi demanded Rama’s exile and her son Bharata become king. How Rama, his wife Sita, and his brother Lakshmana walked into the forest. No soldiers. No gold. Just dharma—the sacred duty—on his back.
Some say dharma is law. Or truth. But that day I learned it was choice.
The sun hadn’t risen yet. I stood by the city gates, where Brahmins were tying marigolds to tall bamboo arches. Ganesha idols had been placed near every threshold, for wisdom, for blessing. Bells clanged softly against the morning wind.
Then I saw him.
Not in a chariot. Not on an elephant.
He came on foot.
Clothes of forest bark still on his shoulders. Hair tied in matted locks. Beside him, Sita walked lightly, serene as moonlight. Her eyes were clear. You could see she had suffered. And yet—there was joy in her step. Lakshmana walked behind them, his face proud, unflinching as ever.
But Bharata—King Bharata, the one given the kingdom—he was already there, kneeling.
He had ruled Ayodhya during Rama’s exile, but not as king. He placed Rama’s sandals on the throne and led as caretaker, waiting. Every day, he fasted, prayed, swore he would return the kingdom when his brother returned.
And now Rama was home.
Everyone expected celebration. Cheers. Flags. But silence fell as Bharata stood and offered the crown.
I was close enough to see Rama’s face.
He looked at the crown for a long time. It trembled slightly in Bharata’s hands.
“No,” Rama said gently. “The kingdom is not mine until I have earned it again.”
Confused, people murmured. Even Lakshmana looked surprised. But then we saw: Rama turned and raised Sita’s hand.
“I return not to rule first, but to restore.”
That was the choice.
He wasn’t just taking back a throne. He was setting a broken city right—not through force or grief—but through faith and dharma. He accepted kingship only after purifying the past. Only after walking through the fire—literally and spiritually—with Sita.
I heard a woman behind me whisper, “But why didn’t he come in glory?”
Because glory wasn’t the point.
It was true. Rama had defeated Ravana—the demon king who had captured Sita, taking her to Lanka. The battle was long. Fierce. Rama’s army fought with monkeys, bears, men—led by Hanuman, the great devotee whose love destroyed mountains. After victory, Rama could’ve entered the city as a hero on a chariot of gold.
But instead, he came walking. Not to prove power—but to prove truth.
That day, I saw transformation. Not just in him. In us.
Ayodhya had waited—not just for a king, but a reckoning. We’d watched our leaders fall to temptation. We remembered how even Queen Kaikeyi, loving but misguided, let her own fear taint dharma. Now, finally, Rama returned not to punish her—but to forgive. He bowed before his stepmother, and she wept.
I tell my grandson this, every year at Diwali. That’s the day Rama came home.
“But why didn’t Rama throw Kaikeyi out?” my grandson asks. “She hurt him.”
And I say, “Because faith is not revenge. Because truth is not loud. And because dharma is not always easy.”
Ganesha watches from the threshold—and I tell my grandson that wisdom sits in silence before it speaks.
Such is the weight of the Ramayana—our great epic, older than time, flowing like the Ganga across generations. And though the Mahabharata teaches through war, the Ramayana teaches through patience. Through endurance.
That’s why Rama matters.
Not because he was perfect, but because he chose the hard path—the path of restoration over recognition.
He came home not to reclaim his identity, but to renew the soul of Ayodhya.
And that, child, is what true kings do.
That is faith.
That is dharma.
And that is why, though the crowns fall and empires fade, Rama still stands—beside Sita, beside truth.
Because kingship is not in the coronation. It’s in the choice.
---
Keywords: Ramayana, faith, dharma, Sita, Ganesha, Mahabharata, truth
Word Count: 588
