The grand wedding is done. Sita is with Rama, Urmila with Lakshmana, Mandavi with Bharata, Shrutakirti with Shatrughna. King Dasharatha, glowing with joy, is returning home with his entire royal caravan. Elephants, horses, musicians, Vedic chants, and festivity fill the air.
Suddenly, the atmosphere turns. The wind grows sharp. The sun dims. Birds start crying strange sounds. The earth trembles faintly.
And then—
A towering figure appears at the edge of the forest path.
Fierce eyes, matted hair, axe slung over his shoulder, and a bow of dazzling brilliance in his hand.
Parashurama. The very name makes kings shiver.
He isn’t just randomly passing by. He felt the shattering of Shiva’s bow and came storming in.
That bow was no ordinary weapon. It had once belonged to Lord Shiva himself. It had been entrusted to Janaka’s ancestors for safekeeping. And now... someone had snapped it in two.
Parashurama, as a Brahmarshi and warrior, took this personally. That bow symbolized divine power and Kshatriya humility before gods. Breaking it felt like a challenge to dharma itself.
He comes straight up to Rama, not knowing who he truly is, and lays down a challenge.
‘I am Parashurama. The destroyer of arrogant kings. The one who rid the earth of Kshatriyas twenty-one times.
I heard someone broke the bow of Shiva. Was it you? You must be strong — but strength is not the same as worth.
Here. Take this bow — Vishnu’s bow. The twin to the one you broke.
If you’re truly mighty, string this bow and shoot an arrow. Then I’ll know your strength is real.’
He isn’t just testing Rama’s arms. He’s testing his soul, his identity, and his right to power.
Rama steps forward. No boasting. No anger. No sign of nervousness either.
He bows respectfully and says:
‘O Bhargava, I am the son of Dasharatha. I broke the bow in Mithila, as asked by the elders present. It was not to show off. Now, since you command it, I shall try this bow as well.’
There’s no aggression. But there’s a subtle, unmistakable confidence in his words.
Rama receives Vishnu’s bow from Parashurama’s hands.
This bow had not been wielded for ages. Even Parashurama hadn’t strung it. It wasn’t just heavy — it was spiritually potent.
Rama takes the bow.
And with a fluid, effortless motion — he strings it.
Not only that — he places an arrow on it, ready to fire.
The heavens tremble. The earth vibrates. Celestial drums resound in unseen skies.
The silence afterward is chilling.
The moment Rama strings the bow, Parashurama feels it. Not just in his bones, but in his very soul. He knows.
‘This is no ordinary man. This is the one I’ve served unknowingly all my life. This is Vishnu — in human form.’
All the anger, the pride, the ego — it melts away.
Parashurama folds his hands.
‘O Rama, I now know who you truly are. You are the Supreme Vishnu, who has taken human form to uphold dharma. My duty is over now. My era is over. You are the next flame to carry the divine mission forward.’
He bows.
And then—he asks Rama to shoot the arrow somewhere it won’t harm anyone.
Rama, smiling slightly, shoots the arrow into the netherworld (Rasatala), clearing a path for souls and energy to pass.
With that, the encounter ends.
After surrendering his weapons and power, Parashurama withdraws from worldly life. He returns to Mahendra mountain to do tapasya.
He remains immortal, but steps out of the active stage of history. It’s a symbolic handover — the axe-wielding Vishnu of the past bows to the bow-bearing Vishnu of the present.
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