स्त्रीशक्तिः सूक्ष्मा तपस्यैव दीप्यते।
या मौनेन कर्तव्यं करोति, सा देवी भवति॥
"The power of a woman does not blaze through noise,
But shines in the quiet austerity of her vow—
She who fulfills her duty in silence, becomes divine."
In Mithila's Soft Dusk
The twilight in Mithila was painted in the scent of mango blossoms and the hush of sacred chants drifting from temple courtyards. The golden arches of the palace glowed faintly in the setting sun. Inside those fragrant halls, amidst laughter and song, lived a girl who never walked loudly through fate.
She was Urmila, daughter of King Janaka.
Second-born. Sita's sister. Mithila's moon—cool and constant.
Yet her eyes searched for a story not yet told.
Clad in a soft neel-vastra, she sat among her attendants, her brows drawn in gentle defiance.
"Tell me," she asked again, voice calm as still water, "is there no tale where a princess does not await her fate, but fashions it? A woman not rescued, but remembered?"
The maids looked at one another with discomfort.
One offered, "Anasuya, the sage's wife, turned hunger into grace when gods came disguised as beggars…"
Another whispered, "Savitri followed her husband into death's realm…"
Urmila shook her head, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
"All these tales end where their silence begins."
She rose and walked out—softly, yet deliberately.
She passed the lotus pond where Sita often sat, listening to the silent tongues of deer and birds—tongues Urmila never understood.
Today, her sister had invited her once more to visit the forest glades beyond Mithila's walls.
"Come, Urmi," Sita had said, "the stags wait to greet you."
But Urmila had turned away.
The world that opened itself to Sita with flowers and voices remained closed to her.
She retreated into her chamber, bolting the carved sandalwood doors behind her.
And just as she leaned against the window to drown her restless thoughts in the open sky—
Kaa… Kaa…
A raven landed on the marble sill, its black eyes ancient and unmoving.
"Shoo," she said, waving a hand. "This is not your perch."
But the bird did not budge.
Instead, it blinked slowly, and said—
"You seek a tale, Princess. I bring you one—etched in the stars, lived by silence, and forgotten by memory."
Her breath caught.
"What tongue speaks from a beak?"
"The tongue of those who have seen the yugas unfold and refold," it replied. "I am Kakbhushundi, witness to time's many shadows. And you, Urmila of Mithila—you seek to be seen."
"I did not ask for prophecy."
"No. But you did ask for a story where a princess is not footnote, but flame."
She stepped closer.
"And in this story... am I that flame?"
The raven bowed its head.
"Hear now, O quiet one, the Ramayana that begins not with war, but with a woman who sleeps—for the world to awaken."
The Vision of the Sleeper
In this telling, the marriage festival unfolds with divine glory. Four brothers, four brides. Four auspicious unions sanctified beneath the gaze of sages and stars.
You, Urmila, are wed to Lakshmana, brother of Rama.
Your hands are joined in a clasp of fire and vows. Your heart, steady, accepts what it does not fully know.
But dharma is never still.
Kaikeyi's boon is demanded. Rama is exiled.
Sita chooses to walk beside him into the wild. Lakshmana, ever devoted, offers his blade to protect them both.
And you are left—Newly wed, yet parted by dharma before the bridal flame had dimmed.
Yet in this version, O Urmila, you do not plead to go.
You do not question the path of dharma.
You walk with Lakshmana to the edge of Ayodhya's walls, holding his hand under a tree that has seen kings born and kingdoms fall.
Your voice, as soft as lamp smoke, speaks:
"You shall not sleep, for fourteen years,
guarding Rama and Janaki in forests deep.
Let me sleep for us both. Let me bear the weight of your rest, so you may carry the burden of your wakefulness."
Lakshmana's eyes fill, not with tears, but reverence.
And in the silence of that vow, you begin your mahanidra—a great sleep, not of body but of will.
Through fourteen cycles of seasons, your limbs lie still, but your soul walks the shadowed trails of the vanvas.
You see the golden deer before it appears.
You shudder when the bridge to Lanka is built.
You ache when your beloved weeps in secret,
unknown to all but you.
You do not wake—not even when Ayodhya burns lamps at Rama's return.
But on the day Lakshmana's sandals return to your chamber, still caked with forest dust, your eyes open.
Not aged. Not changed.
But holy.
Lakshmana kneels before you.
"Devi," he whispers, "you gave me the strength to not sleep, to not fall, to not forget myself in the wilderness."
And yet—no bards sing of your vow. No shrines bear your name.
"Because," the raven said, perched now within her chamber, "not all dharma is loud. Some is woven in silence, like the thread that binds the sacred cloth."
Urmila stood still, the tale echoing through the pulse in her wrists.
"Is this true?" she asked, voice trembling. "Do I truly become her?"
"In one telling, yes. In others, you speak the very shloka that awakens the soul of Ayodhya.
In one rare vision, you never sleep—but fight."
"Then… what is real?"
The raven turned toward the window.
"What you choose, becomes real. What you love, becomes dharma. And what you endure, becomes legend—if not in scripture, then in the unseen hearts of time."
Urmila whispered, "And what of Sita?"
"She will walk through fire. But you—you are the one who burns quietly for years, so that the fire may shine unbroken."
The raven fluttered to the window.
"You asked for a story. You found your mirror."
"Will you return?" she asked softly.
"When the next flame calls," he replied, "I shall be there."
And then he was gone.
The dusk deepened.
Sita's voice floated from the gardens, "Urmila! Come—the stags wait for us!"
But Urmila did not move.
She sat before her ink-stone, dipped her pen, and for the first time in her life—
She began to write her own epic.