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But this was her destiny, to be born into affluence, albeit unwanted and unwished for, yet stifled by tradition and rituals.
It did not matter that Kaushalya had given birth to Shanta. She did not count. She was just a girl.
She was no princess. It does not matter whether she was born as the princess of Ikshvaku or in the home of a pauper. She was just a woman, to be pawned, to be sold away, to be used as a seductress. She was worthless.
You are going to fail, you are good for nothing, you are just a woman -- a voice whispered in her mind’s ear. Her father’s voice. Dasharatha might have given her away, but he clung to her mind, eroding her confidence.
In this world, no man has the courage to equal the pain a mother faces while giving birth; no amount of valour can ever equal that.
Diamonds are only ornamental, it is in mud that the lotus blooms.
Happiness has to take root within, and nurtured with belief and love. Dasharatha, he said, was seeking happiness from without, trying to grab it from everywhere. Like water passing through a sieve, such happiness will also slip away swiftly.
He had yearned for sons and got four noble ones, yet at the time of his last voyage, he only had his daughter by his side.
Dasharatha, the man who had valiantly fought with the King of Gods, the man who had fathered four illustrious sons, left the world in his daughter’s lap.
