Chapter 98: The Origin of a Storm
Almost twenty-five years ago, in a quiet little village nestled near the northern rivers of Bharatvarsh, lived a humble family. The father, a skilled carpenter, spent his days crafting toys and building homes with his hands. His wife, a gentle homemaker, found joy in the little things. Their world revolved around a sweet little girl named Kirti—an innocent soul whose laughter echoed like bells across the fields.
"Baba, can you build me a treehouse? One where I can see the whole village!" little Kirti had once asked with sparkling eyes.
Her father chuckled, ruffling her hair. "For my princess? I will build one so high, even the clouds will get jealous."
And he did. A small but beautiful treehouse stood proudly near the riverbank, where Kirti and her friends played each day. She was adored by everyone—kind, well-mannered, and always smiling. The village elders would often say, "This girl brings luck. Wherever she walks, flowers bloom."
One such afternoon, while playing near the river, Kirti grew tired and fell asleep in the treehouse. The sun dipped low, birds flew back to their nests, and when she woke up, something felt... wrong.
"Where is everyone? Sita? Anu?"
Climbing down the ladder, she rubbed her eyes and walked back to the village. But what she saw froze her breath.
"No... no no... what is this...!"
Flames. Fire devoured her village, smoke clouded the sky, and the air was thick with screams now long silenced. Houses burned. Trees fell. Bodies lay still, turned to ash and bone. She ran, her feet trembling, to her home—only to find it crumbled. Two burnt bodies lay at the entrance.
"Aai! Baba!! NO!! Wake up... please wake up...!"
She screamed. Cried. Shouted. But there was no answer.
As she collapsed in front of them, a large burning log from a nearby house cracked and fell. Kirti had no time to escape. It grazed the left side of her face, the heat searing into her skin.
"AAAHHHH!" she howled in pain, clutching her cheek, her vision fading, her consciousness slipping.
Hours passed. When she awoke, there was nothing but silence. Her small village was reduced to ruins and ash.
Something inside her shattered.
She picked herself up, limping through the remains. Her tiny arms gathered the bones and ashes of every villager she could find, placing them gently into a large cloth bag. Her father's treehouse was now a monument of memories.
"I will take you all... to Ma Ganga," she whispered, voice hoarse with sorrow. "You will get peace. I promise."
The weight of the bag bent her shoulders. Her burned face drew stares and whispers. But she walked. Days turned into weeks.
She begged. Starved. Was beaten by some who mocked her looks.
"Monster girl! Don't come near me!"
Yet she kept walking. The rivers whispered hope. The ashes on her back felt heavier each day, but she never let them go.
At night, she would sit under trees, clutching the potli, whispering to the ashes inside.
"Don't worry... I'm not afraid. I'll take you home."
One day, a cruel man at a roadside dhaba tried to snatch her bag.
"That bag's too big for you, little monster! What's in it?" he snarled.
Kirti clung to it with all her might, eyes blazing.
"My family... my people... Leave it!"
She bit his hand and ran, crying silently. She had never known violence, but pain had taught her survival.
Finally, she reached the banks of Ganga. Her legs wobbled. Her back throbbed. Her soul was worn thin. But she stood in the water, and opened the bag.
"Aai... Baba... everyone... rest now. I couldn't save you, but I brought you here. I kept my word."
One handful after another, she let the ashes go. And with them, a part of her childhood. A part of her soul.
Her tears didn't fall. But her silence screamed.
---
Elsewhere, a young boy of just eight wandered as a Baal Rishi, spreading light across villages in his path. He was Rudra—the same Rudra who would one day become Mahishmati's king.
In one such village, he heard shouts.
"You monster! Ugly face! Get lost!"
Boys were surrounding a thin, frail girl, hitting her with sticks.
"HEY!" Rudra yelled.
His voice was thunder.
He jumped in and pushed the boys away.
"How dare you?! What has she done to you?!"
The boys scattered, scared by Rudra's gaze.
He looked at the girl. Blood trickled from her lips. Her clothes were torn. Her face... half-burned.
He knelt.
"Are you okay? Can you hear me?"
She didn't reply. Her head remained bowed.
"My name is Rudra. I'll help you, okay?"
Still no reply.
He gently took her hand, closed his eyes, and murmured a mantra under his breath. Divine warmth spread through her body. The burn on her face faded. Her body, once frail and weak, gained strength.
She gasped softly but still didn't speak.
He opened his eyes, touched her head.
"I saw everything... what you went through... Kirti. I am sorry. I couldn't be there earlier."
She trembled.
From his pocket, he took out a tiny silver locket shaped like a teardrop.
"This... when the time comes, this will guide you to those who did this. You won't feel hunger again. You won't be weak again."
He placed the locket around her neck and gently said, "Kirtiwaan bhava—may you be glorious."
Finally, Kirti raised her head. Her eyes met his. That moment, something awakened within her.
"Why... did you help me?" she finally whispered.
Rudra smiled gently. "Because you deserve to live. And because no one deserves to carry so much pain alone."
"What... should I do now?"
"Live," he said. "Become strong. One day, when you're ready, this locket will show you your path."
She clutched the pendant. For the first time in weeks, her hands stopped shaking.
Rudra stood. "I have to go. Many people need help. But I'll see you again."
She watched until he disappeared over the horizon.
She didn't know who he was. But she knew one day, she'd walk by his side—not as a victim—but as a warrior.
---
And so the girl who had once carried the weight of an entire village's ashes would one day carry the title:
"Water Disaster."
A name not born of destruction, but of unshakable will, grief turned to strength, and a storm that rose from tears.
To be Continued----