Ek paan hote.
Ek vachan hote.
Ek atma halala.
Ek marg suru jhala.
(One leaf. One vow. One soul stirred. One path began.)
Each phrase was more than a verse—it echoed through Rudra's heart, binding his memories to a promise that felt as old as the forest itself.
Rudra sat beneath the ancient neem tree, its gnarled branches casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of crushed leaves and earth. His sketchbook lay open, fingers poised over the blank page, but he found himself frozen in thought. The ridge trail he had traversed had ended, but curiously, his journey inward had only just begun.
Images swirled in his mind—a spiral, a flickering flame, and a girl with dusk-dark eyes who seemed to call out to him. These were not mere figments of dreams; they were memories that surfaced like raindrops on still water—memories more potent than the world around him. Each image seemed to tug at him, as if urging him to remember something vital, something unfinished.
Beside him, Niya sat in silence, her presence a calm counterpoint to his turmoil. Her gaze drifted between Rudra and the forest, searching his face for traces of what weighed on him. "You haven't spoken since the trek," she observed, her voice gentle yet probing.
Rudra stirred slightly, glancing at her. "I'm listening," he replied, his tone barely above a whisper.
"To what?" she queried, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
"To something older than me," he breathed, almost to himself, before rummaging through his sling pouch. He pulled out the folded leaf he had discovered at Korlai. It was dry and delicate, wrapped snugly in red thread—a remnant of something significant, something almost sacred. Niya watched, curiosity flickering in her eyes as Rudra's hands trembled slightly.
As he carefully unwrapped it, a scroll emerged—thin, worn, and breathing with untold stories. With a deep breath, he began to read the words aloud, each syllable resonating with age and wisdom. The air seemed to grow still, the forest holding its breath.
"Ek talvar hoti.
Ek dhvani hota.
Ek bandhan hote—ek pratidnya hoti.
Ek ghoda milala. Ek atma halala.
Ek jeevan suru zale.
Ek paan hote.
Ek vachan hote.
Ek atma halala.
Ek marg suru jhala."
Niya listened intently, her hand resting softly on the sketchbook. As Rudra's voice faded, she felt a chill pass through her. "This isn't just poetry," she commented, absorbing the depth of his words.
"It's a vow," Rudra replied, his gaze dropping to the faded script. "One that was made. One that wasn't fulfilled." His words lingered between them, heavy with longing and regret.
At that moment, a familiar presence hovered nearby—Meghraj, the horse, emerged from the shadows of the jungle. The undergrowth parted with a soft rustle as he stepped forward, steady and patient, watching Rudra with dark, knowing eyes.
Rudra approached Meghraj, his heart swelling with emotion. "You carried the vow," he whispered reverently. "Across lifetimes." The horse blinked slowly, understanding the sacred weight of their connection, before turning toward the dense foliage ahead.
Driven by an instinct he could not name, Rudra followed Meghraj, with Niya beside him, her support unwavering. Their footsteps crunched over fallen twigs and leaves as they reached a stone ledge, and their eyes widened collectively. The same spiral they had seen before was etched into the rock—weathered yet alive, like an ancient guardian, its grooves catching the late sunlight.
Rudra placed the scroll beside the etching and felt the wind stir, a soft sigh from the jungle, as if nature itself was listening. For a moment, time seemed to pause. He leaned closer, his voice barely audible as he whispered the soul verse again—not to recite but to remember.
"Ek paan hote.
Ek vachan hote.
Ek atma halala.
Ek marg suru jhala."
Unbeknownst to him, this moment was a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā)—a soul verse, not born from composition but drawn forth from the depths of memory. Something old had awakened, and in its awakening, the path ahead seemed both clearer and more mysterious than ever before.
🕉️ **The First Vow**
Etched into the stone. Folded into the leaf. Whispered into the wind.
- To protect silence, not break it.
- To protect dharma, not distort it.
- To redraw the spiral if it fades.
- To remember the soul verse if it's buried.
- To return if the vow is forgotten.
- To walk again if the soul is betrayed.
- To ripple, not to conquer.
- To witness, not to rule.
- To choose again if choice is taken.
- To love again if love is lost.
- To remember. Always.