The Scholar's Ascent
Mithila, 1425
Beneath the broad canopy of a centuries-old banyan tree, Vishwasa sat cross-legged, absorbed in a palm-leaf manuscript. Her fingers traced the fine Sanskrit script as her lips moved silently. The afternoon was warm, the courtyard still, disturbed only by birdsong and the rustle of leaves.
“Vishwasa?”
Her father’s voice was gentle, yet it startled her from contemplation. She looked up, blinking at the sunlight filtering through the tree’s canopy.
“Father,” she said with a smile.
Her father, Pandit Vasudeva, was a scholar revered in Mithila, settled beside her with practiced ease. His white robes were simple, his eyes thoughtful. His posture was dignified yet relaxed, his eyes warm with paternal affection. In their depths lived decades of study, faith, and quiet discipline.
“You’ve been out here since dawn,” he remarked, glancing at the manuscript. “The wedding preparations haven’t drawn you in?”
She sighed softly, placing the book onto her lap and meeting his eyes, vulnerable and sincere. “Father, am I wrong to feel so uneasy?”
“Uneasy?” He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to share more.
“I should feel honored. Marriage to King Padmasimha brings pride to our family. But I feel... lost.”
Her voice faltered. She wasn’t sure he’d understand. But Vasudeva simply nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“All I’ve ever known is here—in these texts, under this tree. What if I can’t be queen and remain who I am? What if courtly life erases what I value?”
Her father smiled gently. “Do you fear that marriage will silence your mind, Vishwasa?”
She shook her head quickly, a slight flush warming her cheeks. “Not silence, perhaps, but drown it in duties and expectations. What if the king does not value scholarship as we do?”
Vasudev looked upward, toward the play of sunlight through banyan leaves. “Wisdom is not confined by walls or silks, Vishwasa. It endures, wherever you go.”
Vishwasa listened carefully, absorbing each word, her expression thoughtful yet doubtful. Her father noticed her lingering hesitation and smiled warmly.
“Perhaps you will find a new purpose in your studies,” he said softly. “Think of yourself not as merely a scholar, but as a teacher whose classroom is now an entire kingdom.”
His words lingered between them, heavy yet comforting. Vishwasa slowly felt some measure of peace returning, her anxiety easing slightly.
She finally nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I will try, Father.”
Vasudeva placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Your mother would have been proud of your strength.”
A faint smile curved Vishwasa’s lips. Her mother had passed away many years ago, leaving behind faint memories of a warm voice and gentle laughter. She often wondered what advice her mother might offer in moments like these.
“Father, what if I fail?”
Her father chuckled warmly. “Impossible. You underestimate yourself. King Padmasimha chose you precisely for your intellect and strength. He values these above mere beauty or status. Trust yourself, Vishwasa, as he already does.”
They sat silently for a moment longer. The tranquility of the courtyard slowly wrapped itself around Vishwasa’s heart, soothing her fears. She finally rose, helping her father to his feet, knowing it was time to rejoin the bustle within their home.
**
Preparations for the royal wedding filled their modest home. Servants moved quickly, arranging saris, polishing ornaments, and laying out gifts. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood. Outside, visitors came and went, murmuring blessings and speculations.
That evening, as twilight cast long shadows across her chamber, Vishwasa sat before a polished bronze mirror. Her sari was embroidered with gold thread; her bangles chimed as she moved. But her eyes remained fixed on her reflection, searching for a version of herself she could carry into the palace.
There was a quiet knock at the door.
“Enter,” she said softly, turning away from the mirror.
A young attendant entered shyly, eyes cast downward. “Devi, a messenger from King Padmasimha has arrived bearing a gift.”
Surprised, Vishwasa nodded permission. Moments later, the messenger entered, bowed respectfully, and placed a small wooden box upon her table before quietly exiting.
Vishwasa approached the box with gentle curiosity. Opening it, she found a delicate manuscript bound with threads of gold. Her fingers trembled slightly as she carefully lifted it, heart racing. On the first page, inscribed in elegant script, were the king’s words:
“May this book of ancient wisdom remind you that the palace you enter honors not only its throne, but its thinkers. Bring your truth freely, for it shall be treasured.”
—Padmasimha
A surge of relief and gratitude flooded through Vishwasa. She pressed the manuscript to her chest. A warmth spread through her—not of romance, but of recognition. She had been seen.
“Perhaps,” she whispered softly, “perhaps there is room for both queen and scholar.”
***
The wedding day dawned bright and clear, filling Mithila’s streets with anticipation. Hundreds gathered along the pathways, their voices blending into a joyful chorus. Vishwasa was dressed in royal finery, her garments richly embroidered, her wrists and ankles adorned with delicate jewelry. Yet the most radiant adornment was the peaceful confidence shining within her eyes.
Vishwasa was married to King Padmasimha.
Next day was Vishwasa’s departure day. As she stepped from her home toward the elaborately decorated royal palanquin waiting outside, Vishwasa paused to glance back at the banyan tree that had sheltered her for so many years.
Her father stood proudly beside it, eyes moist yet smiling warmly.
“You will be a great queen, my daughter,” he assured her softly. “You’ve always sought truth,” he said. “Now you carry it into the world.”
She looked at him, eyes clear. “And I will not let it fall silent.”
He kissed her forehead. “Go, daughter. Not as a bride alone—but as a bearer of light.”
The palanquin lifted gently, swaying slightly as it moved, carrying Vishwasa Devi toward the palace gates. Inside, clutching the king’s manuscript close to her heart, she realized for the first time that knowledge was not her burden but her strength.
Her journey had begun—not in surrender, but in strength.
The Reluctant Monarch
The early days in the palace were demanding. Etiquette, rituals, and courtly expectations left little time for Vishwasa’s cherished manuscripts. Yet, in brief moments of solitude, she found refuge in thought and quietly advised Padmasimha on matters of justice and governance through carefully chosen counsel.
One evening, while strolling through the palace gardens, Padmasimha confessed, "Your wisdom brings me great strength, Vishwasa. Mithila thrives not by my will alone, but through your counsel.”
His acknowledgment warmed her heart. Yet, an unsettling thought lingered. She sensed whispers among the nobility, discomforted by her influence.
Years passed. Vishwasa’s presence transformed Mithila’s intellectual climate. She welcomed scholars, hosted debates, and cultivated learning. Her voice, though soft, shaped thought in the kingdom.
One winter night, a breathless messenger arrived—Padmasimha had collapsed suddenly, stricken by illness. The manuscripts slipped fromVishwasa’s grasp as dread gripped her heart.
The king’s chamber was still, save for his labored breathing. Silken curtains fluttered with the cold breeze. Vishwasa sat at his bedside, pressing a damp cloth to his brow. His once-strong frame now appeared brittle, his skin pale.
Vishwasa dipped a cloth into cool water, gently pressing it to his fevered brow. Her fingers trembled slightly, betraying emotions she tried desperately to control.
“Vishwasa,” he whispered weakly.
She leaned forward, voice gentle yet steady. “I am here, my lord.”
“You always have been,” he murmured, managing a faint smile.
She swallowed the knot forming in her throat. “Rest now, save your strength.”
He shook his head slightly. “No, we must speak.”
“You need—”
“I need you to hear me,” he said firmly, his voice soft but resolute. His eyes held hers, a familiar determination shining briefly through the sickness.
Vishwasa nodded reluctantly, leaning closer to hear clearly.
“When I am gone—”
She flinched at his words, but he gently squeezed her hand in reassurance.
“When I am gone, Mithila will be vulnerable,” he continued slowly. “I have no heir, and the nobles will squabble for power.”
“We have trusted advisors—”
“But no one commands the people’s faith like you,” he said. “They respect your wisdom, your fairness. They see your heart.”
She lowered her eyes. “They respect me because I am your queen, nothing more.”
“No,” he said gently. “They respect you. Lead them.”
Vishwasa’s heart raced with anxiety. “My lord, I am a scholar, not a monarch. I do not know how to govern.”
“You’ve ruled beside me for years,” he said. “You taught me compassion. Mithila needs that now.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Please, don’t ask this of me.”
“I must.” His grip on her hand weakened. “Promise me you will not abandon them.”
With a quiet sob, she leaned forward, pressing his frail hand to her heart. “I promise.”
A sigh escaped him. His chest fell still. Silence followed.
Vishwasa sat unmoving, grief tightening around her. Her tears fell silently onto the king's lifeless hand, the weight of her promise settling in.
***
Days later, she faced a circle of advisors in the royal chamber. Their voices clashed with urgency. Anxiety filled the air, yet she remained still, grief-stricken and withdrawn.
“Devi, without immediate leadership, Mithila will descend into chaos,” Minister Bhaskar implored anxiously. “We must announce your ascension immediately.”
An elder counsel warned, “The people may resist. A queen without precedent—”
Bhaskar cut in, “There is no heir. No one else. The king wished this.”
Vishwasa raised her eyes. “He did. But it was a wish made on a deathbed. What if the people reject me?”
“They won’t,” Bhaskar said. “They need strength. Delay will cast doubt.”
She glanced uncertainly between the faces surrounding her, feeling trapped beneath their expectations. “I have only known about scholarships,” she confessed quietly. “Ruling requires a different wisdom.”
Bhaskar stepped closer, his expression softening. “Devi, you have guided this court countless times with your insights. You are more capable than you admit.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “Will the nobles accept this? A queen with no heir, no army, only scrolls and manuscripts?”
Bhaskar insisted firmly. “Mithila reveres wisdom more than the sword. Your intellect is your greatest weapon.”
She was quiet. The voices of the court faded in her mind. Only Padmasimha’s final words remained.
Finally, she nodded. “Prepare the proclamation.”
***
At dawn, Vishwasa stood quietly upon the palace balcony, facing the anxious crowd gathered below. Hundreds of eyes stared expectantly upward, filled with grief, confusion, and cautious hope. She took a deep breath, praying silently for the strength to speak.
“My people,” she began gently, her voice calm and clear, though her heart trembled. “We have suffered a great loss. King Padmasimha was not merely our ruler; he was my husband, your protector, a friend of knowledge and truth.”
A hush fell as she continued.
“He asked me, with his final breath, to protect and guide you. It is a burden I never sought,” she admitted honestly, meeting their gazes directly. “But it is a responsibility I will honor, with your trust and support.”
For a moment, silence. Then, a lone voice cried out, “We trust you, Vishwasa Devi!”
More voices joined. “Lead us! Long live the queen!”
Relief surged through her, blending strangely with the lingering grief in her heart. She raised her hand, calming them. “Mithila shall remain a land of peace and knowledge. We will honor his memory—not in sorrow alone, but in strength, together.”
The cheers swelled, loud and united.
Returning to the chamber, she found Minister Bhaskar waiting respectfully.
“You did well,” he praised warmly.
“I only spoke honestly,” she replied softly.
“Perhaps that’s what Mithila needs most,” he replied. “You are the scholar-queen now. Let wisdom light your reign.”
She gave a faint nod. The weight of the crown was invisible, but unmistakable.
In her heart, quietly yet steadily, she knew her path had changed irrevocably. The quiet scholar she once was had begun to fade into memory.
And so began the reign of Vishwasa Devi—reluctant queen, chosen by grief, bound by wisdom.
Reign of Enlightenment
Mithila, 1435
Sunlight streamed into the royal court of Mithila, reflecting off marble pillars and golden threads woven into vibrant surroundings. Scholars, poets, and courtiers clustered in animated conversation. Today marked the grand opening of the Chatuscharan Yajna, a scholarly assembly unlike any Mithila had witnessed in decades.
At the far end of the hall sat Queen Vishwasa Devi. The hesitance of her early reign had matured into quiet strength. Draped in a crimson sari edged with gold, she observed the gathering with calm pride and subtle satisfaction.
Minister Bhaskar bowed as he approached. “The assembly is ready, Your Majesty. Scholars from across the kingdom await your words.”
She rose slowly, her posture graceful yet commanding. “Let us begin.”
The room hushed as she raised her hand.
“Honored scholars, poets, and citizens,” she said, her voice steady, “we meet not as individuals, but as stewards of Mithila’s wisdom. Knowledge must be shared, questioned, and deepened through dialogue. Only then can our land become not only prosperous—but wise.”
The audience watched intently, captivated by her sincerity.
Applause followed. Vishwasa felt a quiet joy. Her father’s words echoed within her—not just to teach as a scholar, but to guide as a queen.
***
Later, Vishwasa walked leisurely through the palace gardens, flanked by the famed poet Vidyapati and Minister Bhaskar. The garden, lush with jasmine and rose bushes, provided a fragrant backdrop for quiet conversations.
“Your Majesty,” Vidyapati began humbly, “few rulers honor poets and scholars as you do.”
“Scholarship gave me strength in dark times,” she replied. “Nurture it, and it becomes our strongest defense.”
Bhaskar nodded, “Indeed, Devi. Mithila has flourished remarkably under your reign. Education and art have united our people.”
Vidyapati hesitated, glancing briefly at Bhaskar before speaking again. “I’m writing a history of Mithila’s kings. Your reign must be included.”
Vishwasa smiled faintly, shaking her head slightly. “My work is simple, Vidyapati. I merely opened doors; it is you and others who walked through.”
“But the world should know,” Vidyapati insisted gently.
“Then let the world know Mithila,” Vishwasa replied calmly. “Let it remember a time when culture and poetry thrived. My name is unimportant beside that.”
They paused near a lotus pond.
“Yet,” Vidyapati argued softly, “without a gardener, flowers rarely bloom.”
“She’s right to deflect,” Bhaskar added. “But so are you, poet.”
Vishwasa studied the pond. “Gardens flourish not because the gardener is praised, but because the flowers are cared for.”
Vidyapati inclined his head respectfully. “Then allow us at least to write honestly. Future generations should understand who cultivated such blossoms.”
She smiled. “Write what you must. Just remember—wisdom walks best with humility.”
***
That evening, Vishwasa returned to her chambers. Oil lamps cast a soft glow on stacked manuscripts. She sat at her desk and unrolled fresh parchment.
There was a quiet knock, and Minister Bhaskar entered respectfully, bowing slightly.
“Forgive the intrusion, Devi.”
“You’re always welcome.”
He hesitated. “May I speak frankly?”
She smiled slightly. “Have you ever done otherwise?”
He smiled and took a seat. “Today was historic. Never has Mithila seen such an assembly. Yet… you seem troubled.”
She set down her quill. “When Padmasimha died, I wasn’t sure I could rule. Four years later, I still doubt myself.”
Bhaskar looked at her earnestly. “Why, Devi? Your reign has brought peace and enlightenment. Mithila is stronger because of you.”
“Yet whispers persist,” she replied gently, her eyes distant with quiet pain. “They ask why a woman sits on Mithila’s throne. Perhaps my rule remains a curiosity rather than an accepted fact.”
Bhaskar leaned forward firmly. “Those voices are fading. You rule with wisdom. No one—man or woman—could have done more.”
She smiled faintly. “I never sought praise, Bhaskar. But sometimes I wonder if Mithila truly needs me, or if I remain an anomaly, soon to be forgotten.”
Bhaskar’s voice grew firm yet gentle. “History remembers courage and wisdom, Devi. Trust that your people will not forget.”
She nodded quietly. “Perhaps you’re right.”
***
In the quiet solitude after Bhaskar left, Vishwasa returned to her writing, pouring thoughts onto parchment. The words flowed freely, reflections on her role, struggles, and the quiet joys of witnessing Mithila’s renaissance.
She paused to read over what she had written:
“The true measure of a queen is not in the might of armies or the expanse of her lands, but in the wisdom she fosters. Mithila will endure not because of me, but because knowledge unites its people.”
She rolled up the parchment and sealed it with wax. It would join other documents—preserved, perhaps, for someone in the future.
Outside her window, stars flickered quietly in the vast night sky. She stepped onto the balcony, gazing thoughtfully over her city—peaceful, flourishing, enriched by scholarship. The voices from the day's assembly echoed gently within her mind, voices that spoke not of her, but of the ideas she championed.
A smile formed slowly upon her lips.
Perhaps history would indeed forget her name, leaving her unsung. But Mithila, shaped by the wisdom she nurtured, would remember.
Shadows of Dissent
Mithila, 1440
A tense silence hung in the royal council chamber, broken only by the soft crackle of oil lamps. Queen Vishwasa Devi stood by the window, her silhouette caught in the fading light. Outside, Mithila glowed in the golden dusk, unaware of the unrest stirring within the palace.
"Your Majesty," said Minister Bhaskar, voice taut, "the situation grows dangerous. Several nobles have begun questioning your authority. They claim a woman’s rule defies tradition and weakens the kingdom."
Vishwasa turned, her expression unreadable. "And what do they propose?"
Bhaskar hesitated. "They want you to abdicate in favor of Raja Manikant, your cousin."
A soft sigh escaped her. "And do they truly believe Raja Manikant would serve Mithila better?"
Bhaskar’s gaze dropped. "No, Devi. They seek power for themselves. Manikant would merely be their puppet."
Arjun, a young advisor, stepped forward. "Then let us arrest them! They defy the crown and stir rebellion."
Vishwasa raised a gentle hand, quieting him. "Violence will only validate their claims that I am unfit to rule. Wisdom, not force, will prevail."
Bhaskar looked uneasy. "It could be seen as a weakness."
"Or strength," she said. "Let Mithila witness their motives firsthand."
Vishwasa paused thoughtfully before speaking. "Invite Raja Manikant and his supporters to the court. We shall hear them openly. Mithila must see clearly what they propose."
"But Devi," Arjun protested anxiously, "such a move risks further weakening your position."
She smiled faintly, meeting their gazes evenly. "Truth can only strengthen my rule. Let the nobles speak their grievances publicly. Mithila will judge."
***
The next morning, the royal court brimmed with anticipation. Nobles, scholars, and citizens filled the hall. At the far end stood Manikant, flanked by his supporters. Vishwasa sat composed on the throne, the court hushed as she rose.
Vishwasa rose calmly, her voice steady. "Raja Manikant," she said, "speak your grievance."
Manikant stepped forward, tall and sure. He bowed slightly, though the gesture lacked sincerity. "With respect, Devi, Mithila has always been ruled by kings. Your reign goes against our heritage."
"Is it tradition or your ambition that guides you, Raja?" she asked gently.
Manikant sneered openly. "A woman is not fit to rule. Your gentle nature invites weakness, emboldening enemies."
The crowd shifted uncomfortably.
"Interesting," she replied calmly, "yet Mithila thrives. Our economy prospers, education flourishes, peace reigns. Is this your definition of weakness?"
"Temporary success," Manikant dismissed arrogantly. "Without a strong king, Mithila will collapse."
"And are you that king?" Vishwasa asked softly, her eyes piercing him sharply. "What strength do you bring, Raja?"
Manikant hesitated, startled by her challenge. "I—I represent tradition."
She smiled faintly. "Tradition respects wisdom, justice, and stability. You offer chaos and division. Mithila requires a ruler who understands her people."
The audience murmured approvingly. Manikant, losing composure, snapped harshly, "Your reign will doom Mithila! No queen can command loyalty!"
Minister Bhaskar stepped forward boldly, his voice firm. "Yet Mithila’s people are loyal. Devi has governed and nurtured them for nearly a decade."
Voices rose from the crowd, tentative yet gaining strength. "We trust our queen!" someone shouted. Another voice echoed, "Vishwasa Devi has brought prosperity!"
Vishwasa raised her hand gently, quieting the crowd once again. "Raja Manikant, Mithila has spoken clearly today. True strength lies not in gender, but in character and wisdom."
Humiliated, Manikant bowed stiffly and retreated, followed slowly by his shaken supporters.
***
When the court emptied, Vishwasa returned to the gardens. Bhaskar joined her, his steps careful on the stone path.
"You handled the situation brilliantly, Devi," he assured warmly. "Your wisdom proved stronger than their ambition."
She plucked a jasmine bloom from a nearby bush, its fragrance soft in the evening air. "Still, shadows remain. Their doubt does not disappear just because they lost today."
"Mithila trusts you."
"Trust is fragile," she murmured. "Some days I wonder if my rule brings more division than unity."
Bhaskar shook his head. "You underestimate the power of your example. You lead not with fear, but with reason. That’s strength."
She turned slowly toward him, her eyes quietly grateful. "Yet the cost troubles me. Each challenge feels heavier than the last. Does Mithila truly benefit from a queen whose presence incites constant struggle?"
Bhaskar stepped closer, his voice gentle yet unwavering. "You underestimate your impact, Devi. Mithila is stronger, more united because of your courage. This struggle only proves your strength."
She nodded slowly, still uncertain. "Perhaps you are right. Yet I fear my rule will remain forever controversial."
He smiled warmly. "That question keeps you human. And great rulers are rarely free of controversy."
***
That night, alone in her chamber, Vishwasa unrolled an old manuscript. The parchment was worn, the ink faded, but the words were familiar—verses of wisdom passed down by her ancestors. She traced the lines slowly, grounding herself in their meaning.
A knock interrupted her. Arjun entered quietly, carrying a small tray.
"Forgive the intrusion, Devi," he said, placing it down. "Minister Bhaskar thought you might need something to eat."
She smiled warmly. "That was kind. Sit with me for a moment."
He sat hesitantly, glancing curiously at the manuscript before her.
"What troubles you, Devi?" he asked softly.
"We averted a crisis, and yet I feel... unsteady."
"You doubt yourself?" he asked incredulously. "But Devi, Mithila reveres you deeply!"
"Reverence is fragile," she replied gently, meeting his earnest gaze. "One day it thrives; the next, it may vanish. I fear I will always face doubt."
Arjun’s voice grew firm. "Even the strongest leaders doubt. But Mithila chose clarity over tradition today. They saw your strength."
His earnest conviction warmed her heart. "Thank you. Sometimes it helps to hear it aloud."
After he left, Vishwasa gazed thoughtfully at the manuscript before her. Her eyes lingered on a line she had read many times before:
"Wisdom is strongest in the face of darkness, courage brightest amid shadows."
With quiet determination, she rolled up the manuscript carefully. Shadows might linger, but wisdom, she understood clearly now, thrived precisely because it was tested.
Tonight, despite lingering doubts, she knew clearly Mithila had indeed chosen wisely. She would continue her reign, quiet yet strong, determined to remain the queen who stood resolutely against shadows—even if it meant forever being unsung.
Legacy Unsung
Mithila, 1443
The palace had grown unusually still. The once lively corridors now echoed with silence. In her chamber, Queen Vishwasa sat alone, hunched slightly over a sheet of parchment. Her hands, which had once commanded armies of thought and inked treaties of peace, now trembled as they shaped each letter with care. She wrote slowly, deliberately, her every stroke bearing the weight of reflection.
Minister Bhaskar entered the room with hesitant steps. He had served her for over a decade, but the sight of her fragile figure bent over parchment unsettled him.
“Devi, the physicians grow concerned,” he spoke softly, worrying lining his face. “You must rest.”
She did not look up immediately, but when she did, her smile was faint, kind, and worn thin by time. “Soon, Bhaskar. Let me finish this first.”
He approached quietly, concern etched across his brow. “May I ask what you’re writing?”
She motioned toward the parchment, fingers still curled around the quill. “Lessons. Observations. Thoughts that time hasn’t managed to erase.”
“You speak as if you are leaving,” he replied softly, voice strained.
Vishwasa offered a small nod. “You’ve seen the signs. My body fails me. But my thoughts—these may still have life left in them.”
His expression tightened painfully. “Mithila cannot lose you. Not yet.”
“Mithila has always needed more than a queen,” she said, her voice steady despite her fading strength. “It needs ideas. Wisdom. And it has them, Bhaskar. In its people, its teachers, its scrolls. I was merely a guardian. Knowledge itself has always been the true ruler.”
Bhaskar lowered his eyes, struggling with emotion. “And who will carry your vision forward?”
“The libraries, the schools, The minds we’ve nurtured,” she answered gently. “I have planted seeds, Bhaskar. Others will nurture them. What I leave behind is invisible but enduring.”
He sighed deeply, nodding reluctantly. “You never sought glory, Devi, but Mithila will always remember.”
She placed a comforting hand gently upon him. “Then let them remember not the queen, but the ideals we cherished.”
He bowed quietly, sensing she needed solitude, and withdrew respectfully.
***
Alone again, Vishwasa continued her writing. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, penning each word with profound intent.
A true legacy is not carved in stone or sung in court. It hums softly through generations, in the decisions people make, in the way they think, in how they care for one another. I was never Mithila’s strength—it always belonged to its people, their questions, their courage to learn.
Setting the quill down, she rolled the manuscript gently, sealing it carefully.
Exhausted, she rose unsteadily and moved to the balcony overlooking her beloved city. Mithila stretched before her, bathed softly in twilight hues, a tapestry of gentle beauty and peace. Warm tears filled her eyes, not from sorrow but gratitude.
She closed her eyes, letting the wind carry her whispered farewell.
“Remember me not, but remember the wisdom we have shared.”
***
The palace bells tolled mournfully the following morning. News of Queen Vishwasa’s death spread quickly, and though no decree demanded it, the people gathered—drawn by grief and love. There were no grand speeches, no parades. Instead, quiet tears, shared stories, and a deep, aching silence.
In the royal courtyard, Minister Bhaskar stood quietly beneath the ancient banyan tree planted decades ago. Its roots had grown deep, its shade wide and comforting. Beside him, Arjun held the manuscript Vishwasa had carefully written the previous night.
“Shall we archive it?” Arjun asked, gesturing toward the palace records.
Bhaskar shook his head. “No. Let it rest where her spirit is. Here, beneath this tree she cherished. Perhaps one day, someone worthy will discover it.”
They dug gently at the base of the banyan. Arjun placed the manuscript inside a small wooden box, wrapped in silk. Carefully, they buried it beneath the roots. Not hidden, but entrusted to time.
Stepping back quietly, Bhaskar gazed upward into the banyan’s sprawling branches, eyes glistening gently.
“Let her name fade,” he whispered softly, “but may Mithila forever echo with her wisdom.”
***
Centuries later, the banyan still stood, its trunk gnarled, its branches vast. Students from across the region came to study in the shade it cast. One such student, a young woman named Shreya, often sought solitude there, poring over texts, lost in thought.
One morning, as she rested beneath its branches, her fingers brushed something hard beneath the soil. She unearthed a small, timeworn box. Inside, wrapped in faded silk, lay the manuscript.
She opened it with reverence. The ink had faded but the script was still clear. As she read, a hush fell over her, as if the tree itself held its breath.
When she finally looked up, eyes damp, she whispered aloud:
“Queen Vishwasa...Your wisdom was never lost. Mithila remembers. Your legacy remained unsung, yet eternal.”
***
Author Notes:
Being from Mithila myself, the stories of Queen Vishwasa are very close to my heart. In fact my above fictional story is not a tale of loss or story of an unsung woman—but of continuity through culture. The queen’s name may be forgotten, but her essence lives in every scholar who is hungry for knowledge.
Here are some facts that you might like to know:
1) Queen Vishwasa Devi of Mithila, who reigned from 1431 to 1443 CE, is often regarded as an unsung figure in history.Despite her significant contributions, she remains relatively unrecognized in mainstream historical narratives. Wikipedia+1Wikipedia+1
Following the death of her husband, King Padmasimha, Vishwasa Devi ascended the throne and governed the Mithila Kingdom for twelve years. During her reign, she established the village of Bisaul, transferring the capital there, and transformed her court into a vibrant center for scholars, reminiscent of King Janaka's court from the Ramayana. She notably organized the Chatuscharan Yajna, inviting fourteen hundred Mimansa scholars, and patronized the esteemed Maithil scholar Vidyapati, under whose guidance works like "Saiva-Sarvasva-Sara" and "Gangāvākyāvalī" were composed. Wikipedia+3Wikipedia+3researchambition.com+3Wikipedia+2Wikipedia+2Wikipedia+2
Despite these accomplishments, Queen Vishwasa Devi's legacy has not received widespread recognition, leading many to consider her an unsung queen in the annals of history.
2) Legacy Under the Banyan: Metaphor or Truth?
The idea of burying a manuscript beneath a banyan tree resonates with ancient Indian traditions. Banyan trees were regarded as centers of wisdom and spiritual gatherings. It’s not far-fetched to imagine hidden manuscripts, palm leaf scrolls, or stone inscriptions preserved in remote corners or temple basements, only to be uncovered centuries later.
In fact, several ancient Maithili and Sanskrit manuscripts have been discovered in private collections and village libraries—sometimes handed down quietly for generations.
3) What Truly Happened After Queen Vishwasa’s Death?
If you look at Queen Vishwasa as a poetic stand-in for the ideals of enlightened rule, humility, and intellectual legacy, then her death marks the end of a golden era. What followed was not collapse, but transformation:
- Royal power declined.
- Scholarly tradition survived.
- Oral stories filled the void of written archives.
- Mithila's identity shifted—from a seat of rule to a land of thinkers, poets, and keepers of quiet wisdom.