Chapter 4: The Whisper Before the Storm
The moon hung low over Hastinapur, veiled behind clouds heavy with secrets. Even the stars—those eternal witnesses—seemed to look away, as if they too feared the night's unraveling.
Within a modest charioteer's home, young Vasusen stirred from uneasy sleep.
The dream had returned—more vivid, more cruel. Chariot wheels sunk in the earth, a battlefield soaked in blood, a mother's tearful silence. He awoke not with fear, but with sorrow. Deep. Gnawing.
He had told them yesterday—his parents. Adhirath and Radha had listened quietly, masks of calm on their faces.
"Just a dream," they had said.
But Vasusen knew those masks too well.
He remembered wearing the same one when he'd stolen sweets from the neighbor aunty, sugar still clinging to his lips as he lied. A smile too wide. Eyes that looked away.
They were hiding something.
From his window, he saw a storm gathering—angry clouds rolling across the sky, trees trembling under the wind's early threats. Restless, he rose. A sound reached his ears—whispers, muffled through walls too old to hold secrets.
His parents were still awake.
Their house was simple, though it need not be. Since Adhirath's rise as the royal charioteer, they could have moved into wealthier quarters. But they chose this life—not out of need, but out of virtue. So that Vasusen would learn values before vanity. Grace before grandeur.
He crept closer.
The door to their room stood slightly ajar.
Within, Radha's voice broke through first, laced with unease. "He saw it, Adhirath. The dream. The river. The battlefield. Even… me."
Adhirath's reply came like thunder. "He spoke of Bhishma's vow. Pandu's curse. Secrets only the high council knows. Secrets no child should dream of. No commoner should know."
"And he dreamt of a mother he disgraced," Radha whispered. "A mother… he called me."
Vasusen's heart shattered into silence.
And then, the silence shattered him.
A water pot beside him cracked as he collapsed against it. Clay shards scattered like forgotten truths. Adhirath and Radha rushed to the door, eyes wide in horror.
But before they could speak, he had fled.
Rain met him outside like a thousand stinging truths. He ran—through alleys, through the charioteers' quarters, past memories that could no longer hold him. His feet led him to the river—the same one from the dream. The place of beginnings and betrayals.
He collapsed on the muddy bank, sobbing into the wind, as the storm unleashed its fury above and below.
Inside the house, Radha moved to run after him, her heart racing faster than her feet.
"I must go," she cried, eyes wild with terror. "Adhirath, he's just a boy!"
Adhirath caught her hand.
"No, Radha. Let him be."
"He's out there alone, in this storm! What if—?"
"He'll return," Adhirath said, voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "You forget the rishi's words. The one who blessed you long ago. He said our son would not be ordinary. That he would make history—and in doing so, make your name eternal."
Radha trembled. "But he's hurting."
"Yes," Adhirath whispered, holding her close, "but sometimes, a storm must pass through a heart before clarity can rise. He will come back. Not as a boy who runs from truth—but as a soul ready to carry it."
Radha clutched his hand, tears slipping silently.
Meanwhile, by the river, Vasusen wept alone.
Until he wasn't.
A melody pierced the storm—soft, golden, divine. A veena's strings, somehow louder than the thunder.
Vasusen looked up.
Beneath a lone tree, a rishi sat—untouched by rain, cloaked in serenity. He smiled, eyes twinkling like ancient skies.
"Come, child," he said. "You'll catch your death in this rain."
Vasusen, too broken to question, obeyed. He sat beside the rishi, not knowing why—only that his heart felt a little less heavy here.
"What brings you here, child?" the rishi asked, voice a balm.
And Vasusen spoke. Of dreams and truths. Of being adopted. Of not knowing where he belonged.
Of Radha.
"I am not angry I am not her blood," he whispered. "I am angry because I love her. And if this dream is true… I will break her. I will become the reason her name is shamed. I don't want to be that man. I want to become her pride."
The rishi watched him with eyes older than time.
"Two rivers," he said, "each flowing from different desires—one seeks to glorify the self, the other the mother. They may never meet. But they shape the same earth."
Vasusen blinked. "I don't understand."
The rishi smiled. "One day, someone will come. He will tell you the tale of one who mastered his heart. A man who never let emotion rule him. A man called… Purushottam."
The name echoed like prophecy.
But the rishi said no more. He placed a gentle hand on Vasusen's head.
"You're tired, my child. Rest now. Dreams may haunt you, but sleep still holds healing."
Vasusen, for the first time that night, closed his eyes. He rested his head in the lap of the rishi, who played a melody soft enough to lull the sky.
Outside, the storm began to ease.
And far above, where mortals could not see, the stars reappeared—watching, waiting.
For destiny to unfold.