*Ek paan jodle.
Ek ghoḍa milala.
Ek chehra disla.
Ek athavan jagli.*
*(One leaf joined. One horse met. One face appeared. One memory awakened.)*
The Trek
Rudra didn't say goodbye. Not to Niya, who waited at the door with hope flickering in her eyes, nor to his grandfather, whose quiet strength always filled the house with an unspoken warmth. Some journeys, he believed, demanded silence over words—a farewell painted in glances, a promise sealed by absence. The air in his small room had been thick with things unsaid, each heartbeat echoing with the weight of what he was about to leave behind. But Rudra's feet itched for the path, and he trusted that those who loved him would understand the language of leaving.
He packed light—just his battered sketchbook, a small water bottle, and a folded leaf Niya had tucked into his journal the night before, her hands trembling just a little, though she tried to hide it. The leaf carried the scent of mango, sun-warmed and sweet, a fragment of childhood summers spent beneath heavy-laden branches. It was more than a keepsake; it was a talisman, a reminder of laughter shared in the shade, of promises whispered with sticky fingers and sunburnt noses. The memory clung to him, a gentle anchor to a world he was about to leave.
The trail near the ledge was overgrown, green and wild, thorns clutching at his ankles as he made his way forward. Yet every root and stone was familiar, worn by the countless journeys of his childhood and the echo of his dreams. The forest seemed alive, breathing with him—each tree an ancient sentinel, each branch arching overhead like a cathedral's vault. Somewhere above, birds called to each other, their songs weaving in and out of the hush, while the leaves rustled softly as if imparting encouragement and secrets in equal measure. Rudra's mind wandered beyond the path: to spirals that glimmered behind his eyelids, swords that gleamed with the weight of memory, and to Niya—a girl whose laughter had stitched itself into the seams of his heart, inseparable from the very fabric of his being.
He paused at the edge of the ledge, breathless. Below him, the sea sprawled endlessly, a vast silver mirror shimmering beneath the early sun. The horizon was impossibly far, blurring the line between sky and water, and for a moment Rudra felt as if he stood on the edge of the world itself. The salt tang of the breeze stung his lips, and the wind tugged at his hair, as if urging him onward—or warning him back. All his hopes trembled at that threshold: the promise of discovery, the ache of uncertainty, and a longing that stretched as wide as the ocean itself.
The Encounter
Hours slipped by as he sat cross-legged on the cool stone, letting the world unfurl before him in lines and shadow. He sketched the horizon, capturing its restless beauty; the jagged stone beneath his feet; and, again and again, a horse whose image haunted him—a fleeting presence, half-remembered, like the refrain of a song he could never quite finish. His hand trembled as he drew, the spiral refusing to settle on the page, folding inward upon itself, each curve hinting at a secret just out of reach. He pressed harder, willing the graphite to reveal what memory withheld, but the shape only deepened its mystery, drawing him further into its silent promisThe Encounter
As the afternoon waned and the sun dipped lower, a sharp sound cleaved the hush—a single hoofbeat, measured and sure. It seemed to reverberate through the earth and into Rudra's bones, awakening a feeling he couldn't name. Every sense went taut. The world narrowed to that solitary rhythm, as though the forest itself had paused to listen.
He turned, heart pounding in his chest. There, half-shrouded in a veil of mist rising from the undergrowth, stood Meghraj. The stallion was regal and untamed, coat gleaming with an inner fire. No reins, no saddle—nothing to tether him but the force of his own presence. There was something ancient in the animal's eyes, both magnificent and humbling, as if he had stepped out from the borderlands of legend into the living world.
Rudra stayed utterly still, feeling as if the very air pressed him in place—dense with awe, brittle with anticipation. Meghraj approached, each step deliberate, his eyes deep and knowing, pools of dark intelligence that seemed to pierce every defense Rudra had ever built. Time stretched thin between them, a silent accord passing on the wind.
"You again," Rudra breathed, voice barely more than a tremor. The words tasted strange—familiar and foreign all at once. "Or maybe… me again." The thrill of recognition danced just beneath his skin, mingling with a fear that this meeting would dissolve if he reached for it too eagerly.
Meghraj snorted, a low, resonant sound that felt like an answer—an acknowledgment of the strange, timeless bond between them. Without another glance, the horse turned and began down the trail toward Korlai, each step sure. Rudra hesitated only for a heartbeat before he followed, carried by a sense of inevitability that both frightened and compelled him.
Arrival at Korlai
By the time Rudra reached the beach, the sky was ablaze with streaks of orange and violet, the air thick with the smells of salt and sand. The stone he'd always been drawn to waited for him—cracked and veined, its spiral carved into the surface like a secret waiting to be spoken. He knelt beside it, pressing his fingers to the grooves. This time, the stone did not jolt him away. Instead, it thrummed with a quiet energy that seemed to seep into his skin, settling into the spaces between his ribs, kindling something old and restless within him.
He settled against the stone, sketchbook balanced on his knees. He drew the sword from the museum, its blade shimmering with imagined histories; the spiral from the stone, echoing with meaning he could not yet decipher; and Meghraj's eyes, wise and fathomless. His pencil moved swiftly, but each image felt incomplete, as if he were chasing after the light that always hovered just beyond reach. The sketches looked like memories seen through gauze—real, but impossibly distant, shadows where there should have been clarity.
Meghraj lingered nearby, unmoving, a vigilant guardian beneath the bruised sky. Rudra glanced at him, voice rough with questions he barely understood. "You were his, weren't you? Veeraj's." The name felt heavy on his tongue, and the air seemed to contract, thick with stories that begged to be remembered. History pressed around them, silent but insistent, hinting at truths too vast for words.
The horse stood silent, gaze unwavering. The wind shifted, swirling around them, carrying the scent of salt and wild grass. It brushed against Rudra's face, and for a moment he felt as if the world itself was answering—a response made not of words, but of presence and possibility.
"I don't remember everything," Rudra admitted softly, vulnerability threading through his words, yet something in him steeled by the honesty. "But I remember you. And the way the spiral feels—like a promise I haven't spoken, a vow that waits for its moment."
He rose, every movement deliberate, stepping closer to Meghraj. The air seemed to crackle between them, charged with anticipation and uncertainty. "Why me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Why now?"
Meghraj stepped forward, closing the final distance, and pressed his broad forehead gently against Rudra's chest. The touch sent a jolt through him—a wordless communion, a pulsing connection that went beyond speech. For a breathless moment, it was as if all the years between past and present collapsed into a single heartbeat. Then, as the waves called from beyond the dunes, Meghraj turned toward the water, pausing at the edge of the mist. He looked back once, eyes ageless and kind, carrying the wisdom of centuries and the promise of return.
With that, Meghraj moved away, fading into the mist, his form dissolving into shadow and light. Only the echo of his hoofbeats remained, lingering in the hush—a memory already slipping from the waking world.
Rudra stood alone on the darkening sand, the spiral stone warm beneath his palm. "I'll carry it," he whispered—not just to the winds and the waves, but to every memory that haunted the shore. "Whatever he left behind, I'll carry it forward." The vow settled quietly inside him, a promise sealed by salt and twilight.
That Night
He set up camp near the crumbling remnants of the old fort, the stones cold and familiar beneath his hands. Wrapping himself in a well-worn shawl, he listened as night crept in, cooling the air and sharpening the stars overhead. The waves crashed against the shore in steady rhythm—a lullaby for restless souls, a song older than memory.
Sleep overtook him once more, drawing him into a realm where memory and dream entwined. Fragments tumbled through the darkness: the mango pact, a girl's laughter as she tucked a folded leaf into her hair, always just beyond his grasp. The press of a sword, heavy with the legacy of his father—its weight both blessing and sorrow. The image of a guru, hands steady as he poured water around a flickering lamp, the light dancing with the promise of purpose.
Just before waking, he glimpsed a face—shadowed by firelight, features blurred by time. The eyes held storms and stillness, a spiral embroidered near the collar of a worn garment, a jawline that echoed his own. The vision shimmered, lingering at the threshold of waking.
"Walk through wind and water," a voice called softly, its tone straddling the line between dream and memory. "Carry the light."
Rudra woke, tears tracing silent paths down his cheeks. The name clung to his lips, fragile as dawn—"Veeraj…"—a whisper meant for the morning, or perhaps for the past.