Lakshman.

It seemed that from the first breath he had taken on the Earth, it had been decided that he was somebody blessed with good fortune. Luck was on his side and the fates were twisted in his favour and if he was happy, then the heavens would open up and rain down rose petals, surely.

Lakshman. 

 Shri Ram. Lord Ram. Prabhu Ram. Raja Ram. Bhrata Ram. Every form of Ram he would bow in front of. His commands were equal to the ones he needed to breathe, to keep his heart beating, to keep his limbs running and hands folded and eyes blinking. His mind, body, and soul was Ram's. His life had been meant to serve Ram. 

So what luck did he have in his own right? Why did they even name him if he was ever Ram's servant? Lakshman? Luck?

Where were his good fortunes when Sita was abducted?

Lakshman.

Someone who was lucky. With a spear halfway deep into his chest and bleeding out on the foreign, empty battlefield, his luck seemed to have run out. 

A childhood streaked with injuries and wounds, an adolescence marred by a harsh exile, an adulthood chasmed with poisoned thoughts. A family falling apart. 

Nobody thought he was lucky. He didn't think much about himself at all.

He thought about Urmila. His wife, whose skin was as milky as the sea and eyes wrought from unbreakable iron, and frail body cast with a raging fire of determination. His wife, whose gaze ran unwavering when his did not and whose words blazed when he remained silent. His pillar.

He thought about Maa Sumitra. His mother, who created him not only in her womb, but with her steady hands and her keen mind and a heart of courage when a woman needed it most. His mother, who taught him to be resilient when the ocean swallowed you and the fire threatened to consume. His foundation.

He thought about Ram bhaiyya. His Ram bhaiyya. As bright as the moon when the nights were dark and the path forward, unclear. As soothing as the river when his body ached and his mind gave in. As wise as the Gods and the rishis and the courtiers, when the books didn't give him answers and he didn't know what to do. His purpose. 

Lakshman. Sent to his death by the brother he had served unwaveringly by his every breath. But he wouldn't have had it any other way.

I am lucky, Lakshman thought. I've had a loyal wife, a caring mother, and Ram bhaiyya to fulfill everything else I ever needed.  I was born with a purpose and I have died with a purpose, when men spend their entire lives looking for one and still don't find it. 

I am one with good fortune, for who has good fortune enough that even his death is conveyed by the person he loves most?

And thinking this, he dipped into the Sarayu. 

A/N- I think that I will be labelling serious chapters with *** just to warn people that it isn't meant for humor. 

I know I haven't updated in a bit, but that's because I'm working on the Special! It's already 7000 words, and I haven't even finished it yet! 

These days, I've been wishing I could write beautiful things. I don't think I have the ability to write elegantly or convey beautiful thoughts that well, and that's probably because a lot of my books are humor ones. 

So I'm thinking AFTER PoA and MttSK are completed (I can have no more distractions) I can maybe start a book for beautiful Ramayan writing. I already have an idea for something Ram-centered maybe(??).