Bhoomi2735
JĀNAKĪRĀGHAVĪYAM
(The Epic of Jānakī and Rāghava)
"Ātmānaṁ mānuṣaṁ manye."
("I consider myself a human being, and nothing more." -Rāma, Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Yuddha Kāṇḍa)
In an age where vows were sharper than swords, Bhārata-varṣa trembled at the edge of collapse. Forest sacrifices were defiled. Kings slept with crowns on their heads and fear in their ribs. The heavens watched in silence, as if even the gods were bound by the consequences of pride.
To the south, Laṅkā rose like a golden wound upon the ocean-glorious, intoxicating, and cursed. Rāvaṇa, crowned by conquest and drunk on invincibility, stretched his shadow across the three worlds. Every victory fed his hunger. Every scream of the righteous became music in his blood. The night did not merely follow him. It belonged to him.
To the north, Ayodhyā burned with an older fire-a kingdom built on truth, a dynasty that would rather break its heart than break its word. And within it grew a prince unlike any the earth had carried: calm as the rain-cloud, merciful as the river, terrifying as fate. He was not born to conquer kingdoms-he was born to carry dharma when the world could no longer hold its weight.
And in Videha, from the wound of a plough and the hunger of a dying land, the Earth itself offered a daughter. Sītā-not merely a princess, but a mind forged by wisdom, a ruler who fed her people before she adorned herself. She was not waiting to be rescued. She was preparing to endure.
Their meeting is not romance.
It is cosmic inevitability.
Jānakīrāghavīyam is a devotional, intense, Vālmīki-faithful retelling of the Rāmāyaṇa-where every promise costs blood, every silence hides a storm, and every step toward righteousness feels like walking barefoot into fire.
Here, the bow of Śiva does not merely break-it announces war.
Here, love is not comfort-it is sacrifice.
Here, dharma is not a word-it is a blade.
And once you enter this world-
you won't stop until th