The forest was thick with stories.
As Dhira and his gang journeyed westward toward Kashi, the trees whispered in dialects only goats and poets understood. The path was winding, shaded by banyans and mango groves, and dotted with villages where the group was welcomed like wandering legends.
They had no map.
No fixed plan.
Only a stick that had once been dropped to decide direction—and it had pointed west.
So west they went.
The Villages
In each village, they stayed a night or two.
They helped repair fences.
Taught children how to throw mango pits with precision.
Performed dramatic retellings of the Bee Incident (Kalinga Edition).
And left behind laughter, confusion, and a few broken clay pots.
Bhairav trained every morning.
Dhira napped every afternoon.
The five senior followers argued about who was the most popular.
The storm walked on.
The River Crossing
One afternoon, they reached the banks of the Ganga.
The river shimmered under the sun, wide and slow, like a sleeping serpent.
They prepared to cross.
But then they saw him.
A figure floating face-down in the water.
Back arched toward the sky.
Still.
Silent.
From a distance, it looked like drowning.
Dhira didn't hesitate.
He dove in.
The Rescue
The current was gentle, but the figure was heavy.
Dhira pulled him to the bank.
Laid him down.
The man's eyes were closed.
His breathing was slow.
The group gathered around.
"He's unconscious," said the first follower.
"He might be cursed," said the second.
"He's in a trance," said the third.
"He's dead," said the fourth.
"He's meditating," said Bhairav.
But no one listened to Bhairav.
They built a temporary shelter beside the river.
Laid the man down.
Tended to his "injuries."
There were none.
So in confusion of what to do they took out all of their herbal stash.
Applied everything.
Leaves.
Roots.
Mango pulp.
Now the man looked like a moss-covered sculpture.
"He's turning into a tree," whispered the fifth follower.
"We must save him."
The Firewood Quest
As night approached, the group realized they needed fire.
They scattered to collect wood.
But only Bhairav had a sword.
The others fought with sticks, stones, and sharp mango stems.
Progress was slow.
Then one follower spotted something near the shore.
An axe.
Massive.
Ancient.
Its blade shimmered faintly.
Its handle was carved with symbols.
He ran to it.
Tried to lift it.
It didn't budge.
He tried again.
Failed.
Called the others.
They tried.
Failed.
Word reached Dhira.
He walked over.
Gripped the axe.
Lifted.
It was heavy.
Unnaturally heavy.
Like the weight of a mountain.
Like the weight of a name.
But Dhira didn't stop.
He swung it.
Slowly.
Clumsily.
But he swung.
And chopped wood.
The group cheered.
"Boss is a lumber god!"
"Boss is the axe prince!"
"Boss is the tree Killer!"
Dhira grinned.
But his arms trembled.
And the firewood pile grew.
The Forgotten Sage
In all the excitement, they forgot one thing.
The rishi.
Still lying in the hut.
Still covered in herbs.
Still unfed.
Dhira remembered just before dinner.
He made roti—flatbread cooked over fire.
The others combined mango, wild greens, and salt into a questionable sabji.
They ate.
Laughed.
Argued about who found the axe first.
The rishi remained silent.
So they took turns guarding him through the night.
Bhairav sat first.
Watching the stars.
Listening to the river.
Wondering who the man was.
And why the axe had waited beside him.