"I write this as the sea climbs the golden stairs of my city.
The conch has been blown for the last time.
The children sleep, unaware that dawn will not come for an age.
I was never only a cowherd of Vrindavan.
I was never only the charioteer of Kurukshetra.
I was the memory of dharma, woven into flesh so that when the world forgot, I could remind it.
Long before the first yuga turned, the Devarishis came — not from the heavens, but from the beyond the stars.
They walked on sound. They spoke in silence.
They built Dwaraka not of stone, but of *mantra and tejas.
And when they left, they placed within the Earth a seed — the Ark of Consciousness — to awaken when Kali Yuga drowned all in greed and delusion.
To guard it, they chose seven.
Not for strength.
Not for devotion.
But for remembrance.
Ashwatthama — the wound that cannot close.
Hanuman — the love that cannot fade.
Vyasa — the story that cannot end.
Kripacharya — the oath that cannot break.
Parashurama — the fury that cannot sleep.
Shabari — the offering that cannot be refused.
Maharaja Bali — the humility that cannot be broken.
They would be called Chiranjeevi.
They would be called cursed.
But they are the pillars of time.
Without them, the wheel would collapse.
I am the final guardian.
When I depart, the darkness will rise.
But when the seven gather — and the idol in Puri blinks —
the Ark will breathe again.
Do not look for me in temples.
Look for me in the stillness after aarti.
In the taste of neem on an old woman's tongue.
In the dream of a boy who remembers Kurukshetra.
I do not leave.
I only close my eyes.
And when the time comes…
I will remember you.
— Written in light upon a tablet of black metal, found in the waves near Dwaraka, on the night of Krishna Janmashtami