The forests of Dakshin Bharath whispered with memory.
For a year, Maharishi Durvasa had wandered—through basalt ridges, river valleys, and sacred groves—searching for the girl from his vision. The one who stood between two westward rivers. The one whose shadow rose like a Devi.
He had told no one.
Not of the vision.
Not of the word.
Not of the shadow.
The Elder's Curiosity
In a tribal hamlet near the banks of Reva, Durvasa met an elder with one blind eye and a staff carved from neem root.
He asked only one question.
"Have you seen a girl in hunter's garb? Young. Wears a wooden armband."
The elder frowned.
"I've seen many children. But none like that."
Before Durvasa could turn away, a group of children nearby perked up.
"Oh! You mean the river girl!"
"She came last monsoon!"
"With the boy who fought the bull!"
Durvasa paused.
The elder turned to the children.
"You've seen her?"
The Children's Tale
The kids swarmed in, eyes wide, voices tumbling over each other.
"She had this wooden armlet on her arm, with a weird symbol—looked like Bhumi balancing on sticks!"
"She fixed our water traps and told us our grain storage was 'structurally tragic.'"
"The boy with her—he was hilarious! He called himself 'Dhira the Goat Whisperer' after rescuing a goat that didn't need rescuing!"
"But then—then came the bull!"
They all leaned in.
"It broke loose from the pen during the flood. No one could stop it. It was charging through the village, smashing carts!"
"And Dhira just… walked up to it."
"He didn't even have a weapon!"
"He grabbed its horns and wrestled it down—like, actually sat on it and said, 'You're under arrest for excessive mooing!'"
They burst into laughter.
"We all thought he was a mountain pretending to be a person."
"And the girl—Shakthi—she just stood there with her arms crossed and said, 'Took you long enough.'"
The elder chuckled.
"And what were their names?"
The youngest girl grinned.
"She said her name was Shakthi. The boy was Dhira."
Durvasa said nothing.
But inside, something stirred.
Shakthi's Sensing
Far from the hamlet, in a clearing where the wind always moved west, Shakthi crouched beside a stream.
She wore her hunter's garb—stitched from bark and hide. Her left arm bore the wooden armband, etched with the symbol of Bhumi balanced on two hooked sticks.
She didn't know who was searching.
But she felt it.
"Someone's coming," she muttered.
Behind her, Dhira emerged from the trees, chewing on roasted tamarind.
"Is it someone dangerous, or someone who'll give us food?"
"You just ate."
"That was a warm-up."
She rolled her eyes.
"Get your blade. And stop talking with your mouth full."
"You wound me, Professor."
The Meeting
Durvasa followed the children's directions, veiling himself in devik shakti to appear as a weary merchant—dust-streaked robes, a cracked satchel, and the gait of someone who had walked too far for too little.
He passed through flame trees, crossed a dry streambed, and stepped into a clearing where the wind always moved west.
And there she was.
Shakthi.
Barefoot on red earth, her hunter's garb rustling in the breeze. Her eyes met his—not with fear, but with the calm of someone who had already measured him.
Beside her, Dhira leaned on a Adolita like it was a royal staff.
"Are you lost, old man?" he called out. "Or are you here to join our goat rescue squad? We offer mangoes and mild sarcasm."
Shakthi elbowed him without looking.
Durvasa said nothing.
He did not bow.
He simply stood, gaze fixed—not on her, but on the shadow behind her, vast and silent, rising like Kailash, shaped unmistakably as a Devi with arms outstretched.
The same shadow from his vision.
The same word echoed in his mind:
"Teach."