Why did Dasharatha decide to make Shri Rama the Yuvaraja?

After the sacred echoes of wedding bells faded from Mithila’s skies, Ayodhya once again embraced her children. The city was wrapped in bliss, but in the palace chambers, an old king sat in stillness.

Maharaja Dasharatha, the scion of Raghu, could feel the slow fading of strength in his limbs. His breath had begun to carry the weight of time. And in that silence between two heartbeats, a thought bloomed like a whisper of destiny — ‘Let me place the future in the hands of one who is born for it, while I still breathe, while I can still guide.’

But whom shall he entrust with the flame of Ikshvaku’s dharma?

He closed his eyes — and there, in the throne-room of his mind, stood the radiant image of his son, Shri Ramachandra.

Not merely his eldest, but his noblest.

A prince with the grace of the moon and the fire of the sun. Whose voice flowed like nectar, even to those who poured poison on him. One who never forgot the smallest kindness, yet forgave the greatest cruelty. Not a flicker of envy darkened his heart. His every breath was a hymn of self-restraint. He trained in archery daily, but his bow was never raised in pride. He was truthful without arrogance, righteous without rigidity.

He bowed before elders with folded hands, and lifted the downtrodden with the same hands. He spoke little, but when he did, wisdom walked out of his mouth. He never wasted a moment, never spoke harshly, never acted without purpose. He lived as if the shastras were woven into his nerves. The Vedas were not books to him — they were his blood.

He was calm in joy, composed in rage, unreadable in conflict. His treasury was never squandered, yet never sealed. His mind was artistic, his hand was mighty, and his soul — unshakable.

Even if the skies were to shatter and the devas and asuras joined hands in war — Rama would face them. And they would fall.

How could Dasharatha look beyond such a son?

He summoned his wise ministers. Their eyes gleamed with understanding. There was no debate. There was no doubt. And so, the decision was made — Rama would be Yuvaraja.

Then came the moment. Dasharatha stood before the people of Ayodhya — the very heart of his kingdom. His voice, though aged, carried the might of truth:

‘This kingdom, guarded by my ancestors and held aloft by dharma, must not falter. My body weakens with age, but my will remains. I shall hand over this sacred duty to one who is the very soul of righteousness — my son, Shri Rama. I seek your blessings for this choice.’

The skies themselves seemed to tremble with joy. The earth sang beneath the citizens’ feet. A roar of happiness surged through Ayodhya like the sacred waters of the Sarayu.

‘Rama! Rama! Rama!’ they chanted, their hearts blossoming like lotuses in the sun.

And in that echo, Dasharatha found peace.

Ramaswamy Sastry and Vighnesh Ghanapaathi