The sun burned low over the wide expanse of the Sindhu River, casting amber light across the water's surface as it meandered past fields, temples, and busy marketplaces. Aarav, now 23, stood at the edge of the great river, his eyes narrowed, his expression grim.
He had everything a man could want—wealth, respect, a loyal wife, and a dozen hidden romances scattered across the Sindhu basin. His body remained ageless, chiseled by time and blessed by fate. Women still paused when he passed. Young girls giggled from behind pots, and older women smiled knowingly. Yet something had changed in him. The fire in his eyes burned quieter, deeper—no longer just for pleasure, but for purpose.
---
Devika, now graceful in her maturity, watched him from the courtyard of their grand home.
"You've stopped smiling, Aarav," she said, brushing grain into a copper bowl.
He turned, rubbing his forehead. "The river speaks to me."
She arched an eyebrow. "Again with your visions?"
"They aren't dreams," he said, voice low. "They're warnings."
---
For weeks, Aarav had woken in cold sweat. Visions poured into his sleep—rivers swelling beyond their banks, cities drowned under walls of water, children clinging to floating baskets, temples consumed by silt. The voice inside him whispered with growing urgency:
> "The rivers will rise. The land will fall. Move... or be buried beneath time."
Aarav couldn't ignore it. His gift of insight, his talent for prediction, had served him well in trade and war. But this... this was different.
---
One evening, he stood atop the central platform of Mohenjo-Daro, where once he had charmed crowds with poetry and jokes. Now, his voice thundered with urgency.
> "People of Sindhu!" he cried, his tone slicing through the murmurs of the marketplace. "The river that gives us life now carries death. Its belly is full. Its banks will break. We must go—leave this land while we still can!"
The crowd stirred. Some laughed nervously. Others looked to the elders.
But his speech talent activated like a divine wind.
His words turned to emotion, not just meaning. People didn't just hear—they felt. Fear. Urgency. Loyalty.
> "I have built chariots strong enough to cross the hills. I have mapped the roads beyond the Sindhu basin. I will lead the caravan. But we must move—now."
---
Later that night, as he sat beside Devika, she placed a hand on his arm.
> "You've always been the storm, Aarav," she said. "But now... you're the sky after it. Let them see you as I do."
He smiled faintly. "I just hope they see the flood before it takes them."
---
Aarav's preparation began.
He gathered the artisans, carpenters, cattle herders, and fighters. He used his own wealth to build mobile shelters, train scouts, and pack grain reserves. More importantly, he kept speaking—every dawn, every evening, standing at the markets and temples.
> "The river once saved us," he would say. "Now it tests us."
And slowly, the people began to listen.
Some whispered, "The charioteer speaks the truth."
Others murmured, "Perhaps it's time. Perhaps he sees what we cannot."
---
By the end of the month, a thousand families had pledged to follow him.
And Aarav knew—this was no longer a trade mission, no longer a noble's whim.
This was an exodus.
This was survival.
This was the first migration of the ancient Aryavart people—led not by a king, but by a man blessed by fate, reborn to carry Bharat forward.