Chapter 17 - The Council Summons

Ek marg hota.

Ek mitra hota.

Ek mitra hota.

Ek athavan vegli.

(One path began. One friend joined. One friend joined. One memory diverged.)

🐎 Scene 1: The Morning of the Ride

A pale gold sunlight spilled over the mango grove, painting the courtyard tiles in restless, swirling shadows. The scent of ripe fruit mingled with damp earth and the distant echo of temple bells, as the fort roused itself from dreams. Morning mist clung to the stone archways, softening the bustle of the household waking up. A flock of parakeets darted overhead, their green wings a brief, bright flash against the sky.

Veeraj stood by the steps, adjusting his satchel with nervous fingers—scrolls nestled beside his modest sword, and his tunic stitched with a spiral at the collar, a silent badge of his family's trust. He glanced at the horizon, eyes bright with expectation and worry. Beneath his calm, his heart thudded with questions about the council, the summons, and the weight of the day ahead.

Malhar methodically checked the saddle straps, his movements precise, measured. His eyes scanned the awakening fields—not for enemies, but for doubts he would not voice. The cool air caught at his breath. He felt the responsibility of his father's words echoing from last night, and pressed his hand to the hilt of his blade as if it might steady his thoughts.

Bhanu bounded across the dew-slick stones, barefoot as always, a pouch of folded leaves and scraps of poems swinging from his belt. His hair was wild and his grin wilder. He paused to pluck a mango blossom, twirling it between his fingers as if weighing a secret.

"If you ride too fast," Bhanu called, "the spiral might lose your scent. Or worse, you'll miss the best mangoes."

Veeraj smiled. "Then ride with us. Remind it. And keep us from missing anything worth remembering."

Malhar raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking. "You sure you're ready for politics, Bhanu? It's not all mangoes and poetry."

"Politics?" Bhanu grinned, tossing the mango blossom at Malhar's feet. "I'm not going for politics. I'm going for memory. Politics is just the guard at the door. Besides, who else will remind you to laugh when the council tries to scare you with their long faces?"

🌿 Scene 2: The Farewell

Meera approached, her steps measured, her eyes gentle but unwavering. She placed a folded leaf—carefully inscribed with a tiny verse—into Veeraj's palm. Her hand lingered, cool and steady against his skin.

"Let the vow walk with you," she whispered, voice trembling just enough to betray her worry. "Even when the road forgets, let this leaf remind you of us—of what you promised."

Her fingers lingered—just long enough to anchor something unsaid, a hope, a warning, or maybe a blessing only silence could hold.

Swami Rudraprakash stepped forward, the morning light catching on the white of his robes. His presence quieted the courtyard. He held out a scroll, tied with a red thread, and pressed it into Malhar's hands with a gravity that made the air feel heavier.

"Let silence guide you," Swami intoned, his voice deep as thunder under the earth. "Words are wind. Silence is the river beneath. If you lose your way in the council, listen for the river. Silence will show you what words cannot." He paused, meeting each of their gazes. "This verse is for when you are tested. Remember: restraint is not weakness. It is the door to wisdom."

Bhanu bowed low to Meera, a mock-formal gesture that made her smile despite herself.

"I'll fold your silence into satire. Gently, I promise. But only if you promise to remember to laugh when you read it."

She smiled—soft, proud, a little sad, and brushed a stray curl from her brow. "Then fold it well, Bhanu. And bring it home."

🛤️ Scene 3: The Ride Begins

The three boys rode out at last—Veeraj with vision and nerves, Malhar with a silent tension, and Bhanu weaving mischief with memory. The horses' hooves thudded in rhythm, their breath clouding in the cool air, as if the fort itself exhaled with them.

No drums marked their leaving, no banners fluttered. Their horses moved like breath over the waking earth, the only music the soft creak of leather and the distant call of a hawk.

Behind them, the fort seemed to sigh, old stones settling. The spiral stone at the gate pulsed faintly, as if blessing their journey, then fell quiet, watching them disappear into the sunlit fields.

🌾 Scene 4: The Konkan Trail

The road wound lazily through groves heavy with mangoes, their scent thick in the warming air. Fields of millet and rice whispered to the breeze. Bhanu, ever the trickster, rode sidesaddle and hummed a tune of his own invention, letting the rhythm of the land seep into his bones.

"Do you think the king eats mangoes?" he asked.

"Probably," Veeraj replied.

"Then I'll judge him by his peel technique."

Malhar snorted. "You'll be thrown out in a day."

"Only if I peel too loudly."

They passed a sprawling banyan tree, its roots thick and tangled, where children chased each other with sticks shaped like swords. Their laughter rose above the hum of insects, a reminder of simpler wars.

Bhanu waved. "Future warriors," he said. "Or future poets. Depends on who wins the snack war."

🐚 Scene 5: The Coastal Pause

They paused near a jagged cliff, the ground dark with salt. The wind rose from the sea—a wild, briny breath that tangled their hair and clothes. The surf below was a constant, distant thunder.

Veeraj stood still, letting the roar of the sea fill him. He stared at the horizon, where the sky bled into water, and tried to picture the council chamber waiting for them—full of voices, judgments, and secrets.

Malhar joined him. "You're quiet."

"I'm listening."

"To what?"

"To what I'll forget if I speak too soon. Swami said silence has its own answers—maybe I'm trying to hear one before we reach the city."

Bhanu sat cross-legged nearby, folding a leaf into a tiny boat and setting it adrift on a puddle left by the night's rain. "If you forget, I'll remind you," he said with a grin. "Loudly. With mango metaphors and maybe a song if you're unlucky."

Veeraj smiled. "Then fold them well."

🌿 Scene 6: The Capital Gates

As the city walls loomed on the horizon—grey, sun-bleached, and festooned with saffron flags—Bhanu leaned forward in his saddle, eyes alight with curiosity.

"Do you smell that?"

"Dust?" Malhar asked.

"Ambition," Bhanu replied. "It smells like sandalwood dipped in ego."

Veeraj didn't laugh. He just tightened the spiral thread on his wrist.

"Let's walk in," Veeraj said quietly, twisting the spiral thread on his wrist. "But let's not lose the walk itself. Whatever waits for us inside, we carry our own road."

They entered the capital, swallowed by its noise and light. Three boys, marked by one vow, not knowing where the first fracture might come. The spiral they carried—on cloth, in memory, in silence—was already beginning to ripple.

Somewhere, across lifetimes, a flame prepared to be tested. And above the city, unseen, the old spiral watched, waiting for the sound of silence to return.

Daari ubhi aahe shantata. 

Pudhe chalat raha, athavan banel niyati.

"At the gate, silence waits. Step forward, and memory becomes destiny."