Chapter 1

The rhythmic chant of the Valmiki Ramayana echoed against the cool granite pillars of the temple. Harshavarma, his skin mapped with the wrinkles of eighty summers, leaned against a carved column, his voice a steady hum:

Vishalakshi Chandravadana Padmapatranibhekshana…

Mridusmitamukhi Ramya Sita Lokamanorama.”

(Large-eyed, moon-faced, with eyes like lotus petals;

With a soft-smiling face, beautiful Sita, the delight of the world.)

As the verse left his lips, a voice behind him whispered, “Sita.”

The old man paused, his finger tracing the palm-leaf markings in his book. He turned, half-expecting the goddess herself to have stepped out of the epic. Instead, he found his granddaughter.

She was a splash of vibrant life against the grey temple stone. She wore an orange lehenga that glowed like a sunset, framed by a deep green border and a matching voni draped over her shoulder. A perfect red bindi sat centered between her dark, arched brows. As she folded her hands in prayer, the dozen green glass bangles on her wrists gave a delicate clink, and a single red rose tucked into her braid offered its scent to the evening air.

She wasn’t just praying; she was pleading. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips moving in a silent, desperate bargain with the Divine.

“Sita! Your father is calling you!” a young boy shouted, his footsteps echoing as he ran past.

She startled, her eyes snapping open. She turned to leave, but Harshavarma’s hand—gentle but firm—caught her wrist.

“Sit, Sita,” he commanded softly, gesturing to the floor beside him.

“Grandpa! Dad is calling, I really have to go,” she said, her voice tight with a nervous energy that vibrated through her small frame.

“Tell me first,” Harshavarma said, searching her face. “Why is there such a storm in your heart today? You weren’t praying; you were negotiating with God.”

Sita bit her lip, her fingers twisting the edge of her green voni. “The Intermediate First Year results come out today, Grandpa. I’m terrified. I just need the marks to be good. If I don’t get the percentage I need…”

Harshavarma smiled, a slow, knowing expression. He reached into the deep pocket of his khadi kurta and pulled out a small, heavy bundle wrapped in silk. As it unfurled, the silver glinted in the temple lamps.

“You will get your marks, thalli,” he whispered. “The Goddess doesn’t ignore a heart as sincere as yours.”

He knelt—ignoring the protest of his aged knees—and took her feet in his hands. Sita gasped as he fastened the silver anklets around her ankles. The small bells let out a clear, melodic chime.

“Go now,” he said, patting her feet. “Run to your father.”

The fear in her eyes vanished, replaced by a radiant, brilliant smile. “Thank you, Grandpa!”

She turned and sprinted toward the temple gates, the new anklets singing with every step she took toward her future – Is that so? 

••••

Sita ran out of the temple courtyard, the tiny bells of her new anklets chiming softly with every step. The bright smile on her face hadn’t faded yet as she searched for her father.

Then she saw him.

Her father, Jagapathi, stood near the entrance of the temple parking area. But he wasn’t alone.

Her uncles—his brothers—were surrounding a young boy.

Before she could understand what was happening, one of them struck the boy again. The sound echoed harshly in the otherwise peaceful temple surroundings.

Sita stopped running.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The boy was struggling, trying to shield himself, while Jagapathi grabbed him roughly by the collar and dragged him forward.

Jagapathi’s eyes burned with fury.

He pulled the boy closer and then turned his head toward Sita.

“Hey! Look at my daughter,” he said sharply, forcing the boy to face her.
“I dare you.”

The boy’s face was pale with fear.

“Please… sir… leave me,” he pleaded weakly.

Jagapathi tightened his grip on his collar.

His voice dropped into a cold warning.

“If I ever see you again… following my daughter…”

He leaned closer, his words cutting through the air.

“I will cut your neck.”

With a final shove, he pushed the boy away. The boy stumbled backward and quickly ran off without looking back.

Only then did Jagapathi turn toward Sita.

She was standing frozen.

Her eyes were tightly shut, her hands trembling slightly, her body shivering at the sight she had just witnessed.

Jagapathi’s voice suddenly rose, firm and commanding.

“Sita! Get into the car.”

She flinched at the sudden loudness of his voice.

Startled, she hurried toward the car and quietly slipped into the back seat, sitting stiffly near the door.

A moment later, Jagapathi opened the door and sat beside her.

The anger that had burned in his eyes moments ago slowly faded when he looked at her.

She still hadn’t opened her eyes.

Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, the green bangles faintly clinking.

•••••

Sita barely had her feet across the threshold when the heavy mahogany door slammed shut behind Jagapathi. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent house.

“Why are you encouraging him?” he roared, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings. “Why was that filth following you?”

Sita’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, her lips trembling, trying to find the air to explain that she didn’t even know the boy’s name—that he was a stranger, a shadow she hadn’t invited. “Nanna… I—”

“Shut up!” Jagapathi stepped into her space, his shadow looming over her like a storm cloud. “Just shut up! If you open your mouth again, I’ll give you a reason to cry. I gave you too much freedom. Your grandfather begged me to let you go away for your studies, to stay in that hostel, and this is how you repay me? I know exactly what your generation does behind the cover of books and classrooms!”

The accusation cut deeper than any physical blow. Sita felt her world tilting. Tears escaped her eyes, 

The rest of the family—her mother, her aunts—stood like statues in the shadows of the hallway, frozen by the violence in Jagapathi’s tone.

“It’s over,” Jagapathi declared, his voice turning cold and final. “No more results. No more college. You are getting married in two days. That is my word.”

The room went deathly silent. Her mother let out a muffled gasp, but no one dared to move.

For Sita, the walls began to shrink. Her vision blurred, the faces of her family dissolving into a gray haze.

•••••

Sita woke up in her own bed, the room spinning slightly. The orange fabric of her lehenga was wrinkled, and the silver anklets felt like cold stones against her skin. Her mind was a blank slate, scrubbed clean by the shock of her father’s words. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She simply felt empty.

Craving the warmth of her mother’s lap—the only place she thought might be safe—she stepped out of her room and moved quietly down the stairs.

She reached the kitchen door, but the sound of hushed voices made her stop.

Inside, her aunt was leaning against the counter, her voice dripping with a sharp, judgmental tone. “If boys are already chasing her at this age, imagine the trouble she’ll bring when she’s twenty. We can’t have that shadow on our family name.”

Her grandmother, Narmada, nodded slowly as she stirred a pot. “That is exactly what I told Jagapathi years ago. Why waste money on schools and colleges for girls? It only gives them ideas. At least he has finally seen sense. A wedding is the only way to lock a girl’s character.”

Sita’s heart hammered against her ribs. She waited for her mother, Valli, to defend her. She waited for her to say that Sita was a good girl, a top student, a daughter to be proud of.

Instead, Valli’s voice came out as a tired, bitter sigh. “If her stars had been better, she would have been born a boy. I did every poja, every fast, every prayer… and yet, I was cursed with a girl. I still suffer every day for it. Jagapathi looks at his brothers and their sons, and then he looks at me with such disappointment. Being the eldest son, and having no heir… it is a weight I have to carry because of her.”

Sita didn’t stay to hear the rest. She didn’t even enter the kitchen. The hunger she felt for her mother’s touch had turned into a cold knot of nausea.

Sita retreated to her bedroom, her footsteps muffled by the rug. She sat on the wooden window seat, pulling her knees tight against her chest .

Below in the courtyard, she saw her grandfather standing tall against her father.

“Jagapathi,” the old man’s voice trembled with more than just age. “Why are you being so cruel? She is your daughter, your own blood. How can you promise her to a thirty-six-year-old man? She is only sixteen!”

“In fifteen days, she will be seventeen,” Jagapathi snapped, his voice hard as granite.

“She is talented!” Harshavarma argued, gesturing toward the house. “She was top of her class. Her results came today—she has a future, a mind that deserves to grow!”

Jagapathi turned to face his father, his eyes narrowing. “Dad, you have no idea what this generation is capable of. I’ve seen the way they behave, the risks they take behind our backs. I will not have my name dragged through the mud. As her father, I know what is best for her. Do not interfere.”

Without another word, her father turned and walked away, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in his wake. Her grandfather sank slowly into a wooden chair, looking suddenly very small and very tired.

Sita turned away from the window, her vision blurring. On her bedside table sat the Sundarakanda volume of the Ramayana. She had finished reading it only that morning, a time that felt like a lifetime ago.

Her shaking fingers reached out, tracing the ancient script of the very last verse. In the story, the Sundarakanda ends with hope—the crossing of the ocean and the promise of a rescue. But as the tears finally spilled over, soaking into the page, the words felt like a cruel irony.

She traced the last lines 

“Sakrudeva Prapannaya Tavaasmeeti Cha Yaachate |

Abhayam Sarva Bhutebhyo Dadaamyetad Vratam Mama ||”

(To him who seeks my protection even once and says, ‘I am yours,’ I grant fearlessness from all beings. This is my vow.)