The sun rose golden over Indraprastha, lighting the smooth stones of the half-finished Tower of Memory. Below, the streets buzzed with life—markets full of bright cloth, spices, metals, and voices lifted in songs of a new beginning.
In a grand courtyard, Aarav leaned against a carved pillar, his arms crossed, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
From inside the chamber, a cry pierced the morning air—loud, fierce, and new.
A midwife rushed out, beaming.
> "It's a boy, Aarav-ji! Strong and handsome like his father!"
He strode inside, heart thundering.
There lay Devika, glowing with exhaustion and pride, cradling a squirming bundle swaddled in soft cloth.
She looked up and smiled weakly.
> "Your son... our future," she whispered.
Aarav knelt beside them, brushing his son's tiny cheek.
> "Welcome, little lion," he said softly. "The world awaits your roar."
---
Time flowed like a mighty river.
Aarav, true to his nature, did not limit his blessings to one home alone.
His lovers—Suhani, Radha, Anika, and others—also bore him children, their households filled with laughter and fierce loyalty.
By the time he was twenty-five, eighteen children called him father.
At gatherings, the scene was almost comical:
Little boys chasing each other around pillars, little girls weaving garlands, all trying to climb their father's back at once.
---
One afternoon, while teaching a group of boys about ancient farming methods lost in the flood, Aarav chuckled as they wrestled each other over a stick meant to represent a plow.
> "This is not how you till a field!" he laughed, pulling them apart.
A mischievous boy named Varun, son of Suhani, grinned up at him.
> "But father, isn't fighting for land part of farming too?"
The adults nearby burst out laughing.
Aarav shook his head, amused.
> "A good farmer fights only with his sweat," he said. "Save your battles for greater causes."
---
At night, in the inner chambers, Devika often teased him.
One evening, as Aarav returned from visiting another household, she raised an eyebrow.
> "Tell me, my lord," she said, pretending to examine his neck. "How many lipstick marks did you gather today?"
Aarav grinned.
> "Only as many as the gods allow," he said, sweeping her into a kiss before she could scold him further.
> "Hmph," she muttered, but smiled against his chest.
---
His teaching became his mission.
Using his near-perfect memory, Aarav began training the next generation:
Farming techniques that could resist floods.
Chariot building to navigate the harsh lands.
Music and storytelling, to preserve the soul of the people.
Writing, carving on stones and teaching them to etch history themselves.
He gathered the children—his own and others—under banyan trees, turning the great roots into classrooms and the stones into blackboards.
---
One clear night, Devika sat beside him on the palace terrace, watching their children run under the stars.
> "Will they be ready, Aarav?" she asked quietly.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
> "They will be greater than we ever dreamed," he said. "They will rebuild Bharat into a land of gods."
In the distance, the unfinished Tower of Memory stood tall, its new carvings gleaming in the moonlight—the record of a civilization that refused to be forgotten.
And under that same moon, Aarav—builder, lover, teacher—planted the seeds of a future that would echo across the ages.
---
End of Chapter 17