The air inside the temple had grown still — not serene, but sharp, as if the silence itself was holding its breath.
Parth kept kneeling before the cracked Shiva linga, eyes half-closed, palms pressed together. A thin beam of light broke through the slits in the stone ceiling, falling across the cold floor. The scent of burnt camphor, bel leaves, and ancient dust clung to the stones.
And then… the light dimmed.
Something moved behind him.
Not with the grace of gods, nor the rhythm of man.
A dragging breath.
A presence. Heavy. Old.
Parth turned — and the world changed.
From the shadows behind the sanctum's broken pillars emerged a man.
No — not a man.
A curse made flesh.
He was wrapped in weather-worn robes, stained the color of earth after fire. His bare feet were blackened, cracked, scarred from a thousand roads walked without rest. His skin bore the weight of time, rough like tree bark, streaked with ash. But it was his eyes — glowing faintly red, rimmed dark with centuries of sleepless wandering — that chilled the blood.
And on his forehead…
A wound.
Fresh. Eternal. Bleeding slowly down the bridge of his nose — not violently, but as if the very curse that bound him to life was reminding him: You may never heal.
Parth staggered to his feet.
His heart recognized him before his voice did.
> "Ashwatthama," he breathed. "My Guru's son."
The figure paused. A flicker of something — perhaps recognition, perhaps pain — passed across his worn face.
> "You remember me, then," he said, voice like stone dragged across stone.
"But I do not remember myself anymore. Not truly."
Parth took a hesitant step forward. "Why are you still cursed? I thought— I thought I changed everything. I saw peace. Vrushali. Jyesth. Mother. Krishna..."
> "You did," Ashwatthama murmured. "But not here."
Parth's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Ashwatthama looked past him, toward the Shiva linga.
> "Do you know how time truly moves, boy?
Not as a river. But as a storm.
Infinite winds. Infinite turns."
> "You were gifted a single universe. A thread of mercy.
Where the gods gave you peace — because Arjun had begged for it long ago.
Krishna granted that wish. And in one world, you saved them."
His voice dropped, almost tender now.
> "But this world was not saved."
A silence stretched between them.
Parth could feel the weight of it pressing on his ribs.
> "Then… this is still that world? The one where Kurukshetra burned us all?"
Ashwatthama nodded slowly.
> "Yes. The one where I… slaughtered in rage.
Where the gem was torn from my forehead.
Where Draupadi cried and the earth could no longer forgive.
That war… happened here."
He gestured to the walls.
> "And now, the age of iron begins.
Kali walks among your kind. Not with swords or crowns — but with silence, pollution, pride, power.
He sits in machines. He drinks your rivers.
He blinds you with lights, while the stars fade."
Parth whispered, "Then why am I here? Why show me that happiness if this world remains broken?"
Ashwatthama looked him in the eye — and for a moment, there was no anger. Only a deep, quiet sorrow.
> "Because even gods cannot undo time. But they can prepare its witness."
He stepped closer, placing his weathered hand on Parth's chest.
> "You are not here to fight yet.
You are here to see.
To feel.
To remember why the next avatar must rise.
And what must end, for Dharma to breathe again."
His fingers lingered — warm despite the ash, solid despite the curse.
> "You're not meant to save the past anymore, boy.
You're meant to witness the end —
and prepare for the beginning."
And just like that… he was gone.
As if he had stepped between moments — not walking, not fading — simply ceasing to be.
---
🕯️ End Scene
Parth stood alone in the empty temple, heart thudding like war drums in his chest.
He didn't kneel again.
He simply stood before Mahadev's cracked image, his own reflection trembling in the stone.
And he whispered,
> "I saw heaven.
But this world… is breaking."
Outside, the wind stirred the dry leaves.
The air smelled of sandalwood, smoke, and a war that had not yet come.
---