If you were to stand in the city of Ayodhya on the eve of the great coronation, you would think the sun itself had decided to come down and live among human beings.
For weeks, the air had smelled of crushed cardamom, roasting sesame, and the sharp, sweet perfume of fresh jasmine garlands.
Every wall of every house had been whitewashed until it gleamed like pearl.
And across every doorway, the citizens had hung strings of bright green mango leaves to bring good fortune.
The streets were not made of dirt or stone on this night.
They were paved with the petals of marigolds, thrown by the thousands, by people who could not stop singing.
Tomorrow, their beloved prince Rama was to be crowned king.
To understand why the people sang so loudly, you must understand who Rama was.
In the ancient land of India, where this story has been told and retold for well over 2,000 years, Rama was more than just a prince.
He was the very definition of light.
He was strong, yes, but his strength was never cruel.
He was wise, but he never made others feel foolish.
When he spoke, his voice was like the sound of a deep bell at evening.
And when he looked at you, you felt as though you were the only person in the world.
Beside him stood Sita, his wife.
She was a princess born from the earth itself, found as a baby in a furrow of a plowed field by her father, King Janaka.
Sita did not merely walk through the world, she graced it.
She possessed a courage that was quiet and deep, like water beneath a mountain.
Together, Rama and Sita were the heartbeat of Ayodhya.
But stories, like the weather, do not stay golden forever.
Deep inside the palace, far from the singing crowds, the air was heavy and cold.
In a chamber draped in dark silks, King Dasharatha, Rama's aging father, lay weeping on the floor.
Standing over him was his youngest queen, Kaikeyi.
Once, Kaikeyi had been a warrior queen.
Years ago, on a battlefield far away, the wheel of the king's chariot had broken in the middle of a furious fight.
Kaikeyi had not panicked.
She had wedged her own hand into the broken axle to keep the chariot steady, saving the king's life.
In his immense gratitude, King Dasharatha had promised her two boons, two wishes that she could claim at any time of her choosing.
For years, Kaikeyi had kept those wishes tucked away like dry seeds, waiting for the right moment.
And now, poisoned by the bitter whispers of her old maid servant, Manthara, who feared that Rama's coronation would leave Kaikeyi's own son Bharata with nothing, the queen decided to plant them.
"I claim my boons tonight, my king," Kaikeyi said, her voice cold as iron.
The old king, still smiling from the joy of the coming day, nodded.
"Ask what you will, my queen. It is yours."
"First," Kaikeyi said, "I demand that my son, Bharata, be crowned king tomorrow in Rama's place."
The king gasped, the smile freezing on his face.
"And the second?"
"Second," she whispered, "Rama must be banished from the kingdom. He must live as an exile in the dark, dangerous Dandaka forest for 14 years.
He must wear the rough bark of trees and live as a hermit, far from the sight of men."
King Dasharatha felt as though a spear had pierced his chest.
He fell to his knees, begging her, weeping, offering her his wealth, his palaces, his very life, if she would only spare Rama.
But Kaikeyi stood as still as a carved stone.
A promise in those days was not a light thing. It was the foundation of the world.
If a king broke his word, the sun would cease to shine and the earth would split apart.
This was Dharma, the great cosmic order of duty, truth, and righteousness.
When the morning sun rose, it did not light a coronation. It lit a palace of mourning.
Rama was called to his father's chambers.
He found the old king unable to speak, choking on his tears, while Kaikeyi stood proud and unmoving.
It was Kaikeyi who spoke the terrible words.
She told Rama of the two boons.
She told him that if he loved his father, and if he wished to keep his father's honor clean, he must leave Ayodhya before the sun set, dressed as a beggar.
Imagine what you would do if you were told that your brightest dream had been stolen from you, not because of anything you had done wrong, but because of an old promise made in the dark.
You might scream. You might draw your sword. You might call the people to rebel.
Rama's younger brother, Lakshmana, did exactly that.
His eyes burned like coals, and his hand flew to the hilt of his sword, ready to fight the entire world to protect his brother.
But Rama only smiled.
It was a calm, gentle smile that seemed to quiet the storm in the room.
"Mother," Rama said to Kaikeyi, bowing his head with deep respect.
"Your wish is my command. My father's word must never be broken.
If his honor requires my exile, then I go to the forest gladly.
A kingdom is a small thing compared to the truth."
This calm acceptance is what has amazed listeners of this story for thousands of years.
Rama did not see himself as a victim. He saw himself as a keeper of the light.
If keeping a promise cost him his throne, his wealth, and his home, he would pay that price with a steady heart.
But he did not expect to pay it alone.
When Rama went to tell Sita of his departure, he begged her to stay behind.
"The forest is no place for a princess," he told her. "It is full of wild beasts, burning sun, and sharp thorns.
Stay here in the palace, comfort my mother, and wait for my return."
Sita looked at him, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce, quiet strength.
"Where the shadow goes, the body must follow," she said.
"My home is not in a palace of stone, Rama. My home is wherever you walk.
If you walk on thorns, I will walk behind you to make the path smooth.
If you sleep under the stars, I will watch over your sleep.
Do not ask me to stay behind, for a life without you is no life at all."
Lakshmana, too, refused to be left.
"I am your shadow, brother," he declared. "I will carry your bow, I will guard your steps, and I will build your shelter.
Where you go, I go."
And so, before the sun had reached its midday height, the three of them stripped off their golden jewelry, their silk robes, and their royal sandals.
They dressed themselves in the rough, scratchy bark cloth of forest hermits.
As they walked out of the palace gates, the citizens of Ayodhya wept so loudly that the sound was like the roaring of the sea.
They followed the chariot of the princes as far as they could, until their feet could no longer keep up, leaving Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana to disappear into the great green silence of the wild.
To live in exile does not always mean to live in sorrow.
For the first few years, the Dandaka forest was not a place of terror for the three travelers, but a place of deep, breathing wonder.
They built a small cottage of mud and thatch at a place called Panchavati, near the banks of the sacred Godavari River.
Every morning, the forest woke them with the scent of wet earth and wild lotus.
Lakshmana would rise before the sun to gather sweet roots and berries, while Rama and Sita would sit by the river, watching the white cranes fish in the shallows.
The great sages and holy men who lived in the forest welcomed them, for Rama's presence brought a peace that the wilderness had not known for a long time.
But the forest was also home to older, darker things.
It was the territory of the Rakshasas, powerful, shape-shifting demons who could fly through the air, cast illusions, and change their forms at will.
These demons did not like the light that Rama brought with him.
One morning, as the exile was nearing its 13th year, a deer came hopping into the clearing near their cottage.
It was not a normal deer. Its skin was the color of refined gold, sparkling as if it had been dipped in stardust.
Its spots were like silver coins, its horns were tipped with sapphires, and its eyes shone like two dark jewels.
It leaped through the tall grass with a grace that was almost unnatural, pausing now and then to look back at the cottage, as if inviting them to follow.
Sita saw the deer from the doorway, and her heart leaped.
"Rama, look!" she gasped. "In all my life, I have never seen anything so beautiful.
Please, catch it for me. If we can keep it, it will be our companion in the forest.
And when we return to Ayodhya, we can bring it back to show the people."
Rama looked at the deer, and his brow furrowed. He was suspicious.
"Sita, there is no such thing as a golden deer. It may be a trick of the demons."
But Sita, who had given up her palaces and her riches without a single tear, begged him with her eyes.
She had asked for nothing in 13 years.
How could Rama refuse her now?
"I will go," Rama said, turning to Lakshmana.
"But you must stay here, brother. Do not leave Sita's side for even a moment.
The forest is quiet, but danger is never far away."
With his bow in hand, Rama set off after the golden deer.
The creature was clever.
It would let Rama get almost close enough to touch it, and then, with a spectacular leap, it would vanish into the thickets, leading him deeper and deeper into the heart of the forest, far away from the cottage.
At last, realizing that the deer could not be caught alive, Rama drew his bow and released an arrow.
The arrow struck home.
As the deer fell, its golden skin dissolved, and it transformed back into its true shape, a terrible, towering demon named Maricha.
But before the demon died, he performed one final wicked trick.
Using his magic, he cried out in a voice that sounded exactly like Rama's, screaming in agony.
"Oh, Lakshmana! Oh, Sita! Help me! I am dying!"
The cry echoed through the trees, carrying all the way back to the clearing at Panchavati.
Inside the cottage, Sita heard the voice and turned pale.
"Lakshmana!" she cried. "Did you hear that? It is your brother! He is in mortal danger! You must go to him at once!"
Lakshmana stood firm, his hand on his bow.
"Do not fear, sister. My brother is the greatest warrior in the world.
No demon can harm him.
That voice is an illusion, a trick to draw me away from you."
But Sita's fear made her wild. She could not think clearly.
"How can you stand there so calmly?" she wept. "Do you wish for your brother to die so that you can take his place?
If you do not go, I will run into the forest myself to find him!"
Lakshmana was stung to the heart by her words.
He knew he must protect her, but he could not bear to see her in such agony, nor could he allow her to run into the wild alone.
He made a decision.
Taking his bow, Lakshmana stepped outside the cottage.
He knelt in the dirt and used the tip of his arrow to draw a perfect circle in the dust around the entrance of their home.
As he drew it, he muttered a powerful mantra.
The line in the dust glowed for a brief second with a pale, protective light.
"Sister," Lakshmana said, his voice trembling with emotion.
"I will go to find Rama, but I beg of you, do not step across this line.
As long as you remain inside this circle, no magic, no demon, and no evil force can touch you.
This line is my promise to keep you safe."
With a heavy heart, Lakshmana turned and ran into the dark forest, leaving Sita alone inside the magic circle, the Lakshmana Rekha.
The forest grew very quiet. The birds stopped singing, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
From the shadow of a massive banyan tree, a figure stepped forward.
He looked like an old, wandering holy man, a Sadhu, dressed in simple orange robes, carrying a water pot and a staff.
His face was lined with wisdom, and his long white beard flowed down his chest.
But beneath this disguise, lay Ravana, the lord of Lanka, the ten-headed king of the demons.
Ravana was not a simple monster. He was one of the most complex beings in the universe.
He was a master of the holy Vedas, a brilliant musician who played the lute so beautifully that even the gods would weep, and a king whose city was built entirely of gold.
He had prayed and performed sacrifices for thousands of years until the creator God had granted him a boon.
No god, no demon, and no heavenly spirit could ever defeat him in battle.
But Ravana had one fatal flaw.
He was consumed by his own appetite.
He believed that everything beautiful in the world, every jewel, every kingdom, every queen, belonged to him by right of his strength.
When his sister had told him of the beautiful princess living in the forest, Ravana had decided that he must have her.
He did not care about the cost. He did not care about honor. He wanted what was not his.
The holy man walked slowly toward the cottage, chanting softly.
He stopped just outside the circle drawn by Lakshmana.
He could feel the power radiating from the line in the dust. He knew that if he tried to cross it, the magic would burn him to ashes.
"Alms," the old man called out in a thin, shaky voice.
"Is there any kind soul inside who will give a cup of water and a handful of rice to a hungry traveler?"
Sita, hearing the voice of a holy man, felt her duty rise within her.
In those days, to refuse food to a wandering sage was a terrible sin.
She gathered some wild fruits and walked to the doorway.
She stood at the edge of the circle, looking at the old man.
"Welcome, holy father," she said, stretching her hand out to offer the fruit.
But her hand could not reach him. He was standing too far back.
"Come closer, daughter," the old man said, his eyes gleaming with a strange, intense light.
"I am old, and my limbs are weak. Step forward and place the food in my hands."
Sita hesitated. She remembered Lakshmana's warning. She looked at the line in the dirt.
But she looked also at the old man's frail hands, and her compassion overcame her fear.
Surely, she thought, this old priest could not harm her.
She took one step forward. Her foot crossed the line.
The moment her foot touched the dirt outside the circle, the air turned cold.
The old man's frail form began to grow and stretch. The orange robes dissolved into armor of black iron and gold.
His single face multiplied into ten terrifying heads, each one crowned with jewels, their eyes burning like red torches.
20 massive arms sprouted from his shoulders, holding weapons of gleaming bronze.
Sita screamed, but there was no one to hear her.
Ravana laughed, a sound like thunder rolling across a stormy sky.
"I am Ravana, King of Lanka!" he roared. "You are too beautiful to live in a mud hut, princess.
You shall come with me to my kingdom of gold, where a thousand handmaidens will bow to you, and you shall be my queen."
He seized her by her hair and her wrists, lifting her into his flying chariot, the Pushpaka Vimana, which was made of gold and powered by the wind.
With a roar that shook the trees, the chariot rose into the sky, speeding south toward the great ocean.
"Rama!" Sita cried, her voice tearing through the clouds.
"Lakshmana! Save me! Help me!"
As the chariot sped over the forest canopy, her cries reached the ears of an old friend.
High on a rocky crag sat Jatayu, the king of the eagles.
He was ancient, his feathers gray and ragged, but his heart was still noble.
He had been a friend of Rama's father, and he had promised to watch over the young exiles.
Looking up, Jatayu saw the golden chariot and heard Sita's desperate cries.
"Stop, monster!" the old eagle roared.
With a mighty beat of his wings, Jatayu launched himself into the sky.
He was giant, his wingspan casting a shadow like a storm cloud.
He intercepted the chariot, striking at Ravana with his sharp talons and his heavy beak.
He tore at the demon king's armor, shattering his golden bow and broke the chariot's wheels.
It was a glorious, desperate fight, the first tears of the epic.
Jatayu knew he was old, and he knew Ravana was invincible to beasts and gods, but he did not care.
He could not stand by and watch a helpless woman be stolen.
Ravana, furious at being delayed by a mere bird, drew his great sword of dark steel.
With a swift, terrible stroke, he sliced through Jatayu's mighty wings.
The old eagle gasped, his wings failing him.
He fell through the air like a stone, crashing into the forest floor below, his lifeblood pooling in the dirt.
Ravana did not look back. He flew on, carrying Sita across the sea to his island fortress of Lanka.
When they arrived, Ravana did not throw Sita into a dungeon.
Instead, he took her to his most beautiful garden, the Ashoka Grove.
It was a place of breathtaking beauty, filled with flowering trees, sweet-scented pools, and singing birds.
"Look around you," Ravana said, waving his 20 hands at the beauty of Lanka.
"All of this can be yours. I have riches beyond your wildest dreams.
Rama is only a mortal prince, wandering in the dirt.
He will never find you here, and even if he did, he could never defeat my armies.
Forget him, Sita. Choose me."
Sita stood beneath a great Ashoka tree.
She did not look at the gold. She did not look at the flowers.
She plucked a single blade of grass from the ground and held it up between herself and the demon king, as if using it as a shield.
"You may have ten heads, Ravana," she said, her voice steady and cold as ice.
"But you do not have a single grain of honor.
You stole me like a thief in the night when my protectors were gone.
You think your gold makes you strong?
To me, your gold is like dust, and you are nothing but a dry leaf waiting to be swept away by the wind of Rama's anger.
I will sit beneath this tree, and I will wait for my lord.
You can chain my body, but you will never touch my heart."
And there she sat, day after day, refusing to eat the demon's food, refusing to sleep in his palace, her mind fixed entirely on Rama.
Her steadfastness became the moral engine of the entire story, a quiet, unyielding light that all of Ravana's power could not extinguish.
When Rama and Lakshmana returned to the cottage and found it empty, Rama's grief was so great that it threatened to tear him apart.
He ran through the trees, calling her name.
He asked the deer, the river, and the trees if they had seen his beloved Sita.
They found Jatayu first.
The old eagle lay dying in the dust, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
Rama knelt beside him, cradling the giant bird's head in his lap, his tears falling onto the eagle's feathers.
"Rama," Jatayu whispered, his eyes dimming.
"Ravana, the king of Lanka, has taken her.
He flew south, across the sea.
I tried to stop him."
With those final words, the brave old eagle died.
Rama and Lakshmana built a funeral pyre for him, honoring him as if he were their own father.
Guided by Jatayu's last words, the brothers turned south.
But how could two men, on foot, find a hidden island kingdom across a vast ocean?
They needed allies, and they found them in the most unexpected place, the kingdom of Kishkindha, the land of the Vanaras, a race of powerful, intelligent monkey warriors.
The king of the monkeys, Sugriva, had been exiled from his throne by his own brother, just as Rama had been.
Rama helped Sugriva regain his kingdom, and in return, Sugriva pledged the entire monkey army to Rama's search.
Among the monkeys was one who was different from all the rest.
His name was Hanuman.
Hanuman was the son of Vayu, the God of the wind.
He was humble, quiet, and devoted to Rama with a love that was absolute.
But Hanuman had a secret.
When he was a child, he had tried to leap into the sky to eat the sun, thinking it was a ripe mango.
The gods, frightened by his power, had made him forget his own strength.
He could only remember how powerful he was when someone he respected reminded him of it.
Standing on the southernmost tip of India, looking out across the roaring gray waves of the ocean toward Lanka, the monkey army despaired.
The water was too wide, the currents too strong.
"Who can cross this sea?" Sugriva asked. "No monkey can jump so far."
Then, the wise old bear, Jambavan, walked over to Hanuman, who was sitting quietly in the sand, drawing patterns in the dust.
"Hanuman," Jambavan said, "Why do you sit in silence? Do you not know who you are?
You are the son of the wind. You are as swift as thought, as strong as thunder.
Remember your strength, Hanuman. Rama needs you."
As Hanuman listened to these words, a strange thing happened.
His body began to grow. He grew taller than the coconut palms, taller than the cliffs, until his head touched the clouds.
His fur shone like gold, and his eyes glowed like twin suns.
"I remember!" Hanuman roared, his voice shaking the mountains.
He climbed to the top of Mount Mahendra. He bent his knees, pressed his feet into the stone until the mountain cracked, and with a shout of "Jai Shri Ram!" "Victory to Rama!" he leaped.
It was a leap that became legend.
Hanuman flew through the air like a golden comet, his tail streaming behind him like a banner.
The sea monsters rose to swallow him, but he outwitted them, growing small as a thumb to fly into their mouths and out of their ears before they could bite down.
At last, he landed in Lanka.
He shrank his size to that of a common house cat, so he could search the city without being seen.
He searched the palaces, the stables, and the gardens, until at last, he found the Ashoka Grove.
There, sitting beneath the Ashoka tree, surrounded by ugly demon guards, was Sita.
She looked thin and pale, her eyes red from weeping, but she was still as beautiful as the moon shining through dark clouds.
Hanuman climbed into the branches of the tree above her.
Waiting until the guards fell asleep, he began to sing softly, chanting the name of Rama and telling the story of their journey.
Sita looked up, startled.
"Who is there?" she whispered.
Hanuman slid down from the branches and knelt before her, his hands folded in deep respect.
"I am Hanuman, messenger of Prince Rama," he said.
"He has searched the world for you, mother. He will come soon with a mighty army to rescue you."
"How do I know you are not a demon in disguise?" Sita asked, her voice trembling.
Hanuman reached into his robes and pulled out a golden ring.
It was Rama's signet ring, engraved with his name.
Sita took the ring, and as she looked at it, her tears flowed freely.
She knew Hanuman was telling the truth.
"Tell him to hurry, Hanuman," she whispered. "My heart is breaking, and my time here is short."
Before he left Lanka, Hanuman decided to leave the demon king a warning.
He allowed himself to be captured by Ravana's guards.
When he was brought before the ten-headed king, Hanuman stood tall, despite his chains.
"Release Sita!" Hanuman warned. "If you do not, Rama's arrows will find you, and your golden city will turn to ashes."
Ravana laughed with contempt.
"A monkey dares to advise me? Set his tail on fire and let him run back to his master!"
The demons wrapped Hanuman's long tail in bandages soaked in oil and set it ablaze.
But Hanuman only smiled.
With a mighty roar, he broke his chains. He leaped out of the palace window and began to jump from rooftop to rooftop, his burning tail setting fire to the thatched roofs and wooden beams of Lanka's grand palaces.
Soon, half of the golden city was burning, a fiery warning of the storm that was to come.
Then, Hanuman leaped back across the ocean, carrying Sita's message and her hope back to Rama.
Oh, did you like that story? It was from a book called the Ramayana, a really, really old Hindu epic of the 5,000 years ago.
You can find more in my playlist called Ancient Tales.
That's it for now. Bye for now.
Now, the great army of monkeys and bears stood on the edge of the sea, ready to march on Lanka.
But the ocean still lay between them and their goal.
How could an army of millions cross the deep water?
Rama stood by the shore, his face grave.
He prayed to the God of the ocean for three days, asking him to part the waters.
But the ocean did not answer.
Angered by the sea's silence, Rama drew his bow and aimed an arrow of fire at the water, threatening to dry up the entire ocean.
Frightened, the ocean God rose from the waves, his crown of shells glistening in the sun.
"Forgive me, Rama," the ocean God pleaded.
"I cannot part my waters, for it is the law of nature that the sea must be deep and wide.
But I will help you. Among your army are two monkeys, Nala and Nila, who are the sons of the divine architect.
If they build a bridge of stones across my waves, I will hold the stones afloat. They will not sink."
The monkey army set to work with a wild, joyful energy.
They tore down mountains, uprooted giant trees, and carried massive boulders to the shore.
On each stone, before they threw it into the sea, they wrote the name of Rama in ancient letters.
And indeed, the magic worked.
The heavy stones, instead of sinking to the dark bottom of the sea, floated on the surface of the gray waves like corks.
During this frantic work, Rama noticed a tiny creature.
It was a small gray squirrel.
The squirrel was watching the giant monkeys carry huge boulders on their shoulders.
It wanted to help Rama too, but it was so small.
It ran down to the water, rolled its body in the wet sand until its fur was covered in tiny grains, and then ran out onto the floating stones, shaking the sand out of its fur into the small cracks between the boulders.
Then it ran back, rolled in the sand again, and carried another load.
The giant monkeys, hurrying with their heavy rocks, almost stepped on the little creature.
One of them laughed.
"Hey, little one, what do you think you are doing? Your tiny grains of sand are nothing compared to our mountains.
Get out of the way before you get hurt!"
The squirrel's ears drooped, and it sat on a rock, looking sad.
Rama had seen everything.
He walked over to the squirrel and gently picked it up, cradling it in his palm.
He turned to the monkey army, his voice gentle but firm.
"Do not laugh at the small," Rama said. "This little squirrel is doing something just as great as any of you.
You carry the boulders because you have the strength of giants.
This squirrel carries sand because it has the strength of a squirrel.
But both of you are giving everything you have.
In my eyes, the love in this little heart is as great as the strength of the mountains."
Rama gently stroked the squirrel's back with his three fingers to thank it.
And the story says that to this day, all Indian squirrels carry three dark stripes down their backs, the mark of Rama's fingers, a reminder that the smallest helpers are blessed.
With the bridge complete, the army crossed the sea.
The war that followed was a clash of light and shadow, fought at an epic distance.
For days, the sky above Lanka was filled with flying arrows, roaring demons, and leaping monkeys.
Lakshmana fought bravely, nearly losing his life to a magic spear, only to be saved when Hanuman flew all the way to the Himalayas to bring back an entire mountain of healing herbs.
At last, the battlefield cleared, leaving only Rama and Ravana to face each other.
Ravana rode in a chariot of black iron, his ten faces snarling, his 20 arms wielding weapons of dark magic.
Rama stood on the ground, his bow Kodanda in his hand, his face calm and resolute.
It was a duel that shook the earth.
Every time Rama shot an arrow and cut off one of Ravana's ten heads, another head would instantly grow back in its place, laughing hideously.
Ravana seemed unbeatable.
"Rama!" Vibhishana, Ravana's wise brother, who had joined Rama's side, called out.
"His heads are not his secret. The nectar of immortality is hidden in his heart. Aim for his chest!"
Rama drew his bow one final time.
He fitted the Brahmastra, an arrow forged by the creator God himself, tipped with the fire of the sun.
He pulled the string back to his ear, breathed in the scent of the sea wind, and released it.
The arrow flew like a streak of lightning. It pierced Ravana's heart, shattering the vessel of his power.
The ten-headed king fell from his chariot, crashing into the dust of the battlefield.
As he lay dying, the anger left his ten faces.
He looked at Rama, and in his final moments, his great learning and wisdom returned to him.
He realized that his pride and his greed had been his undoing.
He bowed his head in his heart to the prince of light, and his soul departed.
Rama did not celebrate. He stood over the fallen king and looked down with sorrow.
"He was a great scholar," Rama said softly. "He was a mighty king.
Let us honor his memory and give him the funeral of a king."
The war was over. The light had returned.
The 14 years of exile ended on the very day of the victory.
Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana knew they must return to Ayodhya immediately.
Rama's brother, Bharata, who had ruled the city only as a regent, keeping Rama's wooden sandals on the throne as a sign that the true king would return, had promised to throw himself onto a fire if Rama did not return on the exact day.
They boarded the Pushpaka Vimana, the flying chariot, and rose into the evening sky, heading north.
As they neared Ayodhya, the sun set, and a deep, moonless night fell over the land.
But the people of Ayodhya had not forgotten.
Looking down from the sky, Rama and Sita saw a sight that made them weep with joy.
The entire city, and every village from miles around, was glowing.
The people had placed rows of tiny clay lamps, Diyas, filled with mustard oil and cotton wicks in every window, on every rooftop, along every path, and floating down every river.
It was a pathway of light, guiding them home through the dark.
This homecoming is what people all over the world still celebrate every autumn during the festival of Diwali, the festival of lights, which marks the victory of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance, and truth over falsehood.
Rama was crowned king, with Sita beside him, and under their rule, the world entered a golden age of peace and joy.
Now, if you were to read the very end of the Ramayana, the ancient books that contain this story, you would find that there are other chapters that come after this homecoming.
They are harder chapters, full of sorrow and difficult choices.
Chapters meant for older readers who are ready to think about the complicated ways of the world.
But tonight, we leave our travelers where the lights are burning brightest.
We leave them in the warm glow of the clay lamps, where a promise has been kept, a queen has been rescued, and a kingdom has been restored.
As you close your eyes and let the warmth of this story settle over you, think about the choices that were made.
Think of Rama, who gave up his crown for his father's word, of Sita, who chose the thorns of the forest over the safety of the palace, of the little squirrel, who gave its tiny grains of sand.
And keep this question with you as you drift off to sleep.
When keeping a promise costs you everything, what makes a person keep it anyway?