It had been a year since Maharishi Durvasa received the vision.
A year since the fire in his meditation cracked open the veil of time and space.
A year since he saw her.
The Vision
It came not with thunder, but with stillness.
In the heart of his penance, beneath the shade of a neem tree, the world fell silent—and then reshaped.
He saw a young girl, no older than ten, standing barefoot on red earth. Her skin was dusted with ash, her eyes sharp as obsidian. She wore hunter's attire, stitched from bark and hide, and on her left arm was a wooden armband.
Embedded in the armband was a small circular plate, carved with a symbol that burned itself into Durvasa's memory:
Bhumi, the Earth Mother, delicately balanced on two hooked sticks rising from below—like a scale trying to hold her steady.
It was not a sigil of power.
It was a cry for balance.
The Rivers That Flowed Backward
Behind the girl, two great rivers shimmered in the vision.
But something was wrong.
They did not flow eastward like Ganga or Yamuna.
They flowed west, toward the setting sun.
Durvasa understood at once.
"Reva," he whispered. "And Tapti."
The rivers now called Narmada and Tapi.
This girl was not from the north.
She was born of Dakshin Bharath.
The Shadow Behind Her
But it was not the girl that held his gaze.
It was the shadow behind her.
It rose like a mountain—as vast as Kailash Parvat, yet not of stone.
It was a silhouette of a Devi, arms outstretched, her form both nurturing and terrifying.
And from that shadow, Durvasa heard only one word:
"Teach."
The Journey Begins
When the vision faded, Durvasa rose from his meditation.
He did not question it.
He did not delay.
He began walking—southward, toward the lands of the westward rivers.
One Year Later
Twelve moons had passed.
He had walked through forests, crossed rivers, spoken to sages and kings.
But he had not found the girl.
Not yet.
Still, he did not stop.
"She is not a child," he told himself. "She is a message."
And messages, when divine, always arrive on time.