The sun rose slowly over the Ganga, casting golden light across the riverbank where seven travelers had built a makeshift camp. The water shimmered, the trees rustled, and the birds sang—but the rishi they had rescued the day before remained completely still.
His eyes were closed.
His breath was steady.
His body was now covered in a thick, glistening layer of herbal paste—roots, leaves, mango pulp, and forest resin. The layer was at least two inches thick, applied in waves of panic and devotion.
The Diagnosis War
The group gathered around the rishi, each with a theory.
"He's still unconscious," said the first follower, peering at the rishi's closed eyes.
"His soul is trapped in a mango," said the second, holding up a fruit solemnly.
"He's cursed by river spirits," said the third, who had read half a scroll on aquatic demons.
"He's in a coma," said the fourth, who didn't know what a coma was but liked the word.
"He's meditating," Bhairav said again, quietly.
No one listened to Bhairav.
They were too busy preparing another batch of paste.
The Moral Dilemma
They debated whether to leave.
"We can't just walk away," Dhira said. "It wouldn't be respectful."
"It wouldn't be humane," Bhairav added.
"It wouldn't be heroic," said the fifth follower, who had already carved a wooden plaque reading "Rishi Recovery Squad."
So they stayed.
They reinforced the shelter with banana leaves.
Hung mango garlands for spiritual ambiance.
And took turns fanning the rishi with goat-feather fans.
Still, the rishi didn't move.
Dhira returned to the axe.
It lay near the shore, half-buried in sand, glinting faintly in the morning light.
He didn't train with it because he liked it.
He trained with it because it had challenged him.
The weight was unnatural—like lifting a mountain wrapped in iron.
Each swing strained his muscles.
Each strike echoed through the forest.
Even Adolita, his trusted stick, had failed against it.
He had tried to cut Adolita once—just to test.
The axe struck.
Adolita didn't break.
It didn't even scratch.
Instead, it sank into the earth like a nail.
Dhira stared.
"You're stubborn," he whispered to the axe.
"I like that."
He trained harder.
Sweat poured.
His arms trembled.
But the firewood pile grew.
The Followers' Distraction
The five senior followers had shifted focus.
They were now debating whether the rishi's condition was physical, mental, or spiritual.
"It's mental," said the first. "We need mango therapy."
"It's spiritual," said the second. "We need goat chants."
"It's emotional," said the third. "We need hugs."
"It's digestive," said the fourth. "We need sabji."
"It's all of the above," said the fifth, who had started writing a scroll titled The Twelve States of Rishi Recovery.
They applied more paste.
They added turmeric.
They added honey.
They added crushed mango seeds.
The rishi now resembled a sacred tree idol.
Still, he didn't move.
Elsewhere: The Archer's Path
Far from the riverbank, Karna walked through the forest.
His search for Parashurama had stretched across weeks.
He had followed rumors.
Traced footprints.
Prayed at shrines.
But the sage remained elusive.
Karna's feet were blistered.
His bow was worn.
His resolve was untouched.
He passed through groves where the wind didn't speak.
He crossed streams where the water didn't reflect.
He walked.
And walked.
Until he saw it.
The Hut by the River
A small hut.
At the edge of the Ganga.
In the middle of nowhere.
Seven people stood outside.
One was swinging a massive axe.
Another was mixing herbs.
A third was arguing with a goat.
Karna paused.
Watched.
Listened.