Dhruv and Gorgo stepped out of the hotel, the bustling city lights flickering against the darkening sky. Dhruv raised a hand to hail an autorickshaw, and as it came to a stop, they both climbed in. Gorgo, still adjusting to the strange, buzzing vehicle, tried to make himself comfortable, while Dhruv leaned back, staring out at the streets as they sped by.
The driver, a middle-aged man with a warm smile, asked, "Where to?"
Dhruv hesitated for a moment, his voice barely audible. "Take us to Greenlane. Near the old neighborhood by the big banyan tree."
As the autorickshaw wove through the busy streets, Dhruv's mind drifted away, lost in a flood of memories. The roar of the city began to fade, replaced by a different kind of sound—the gentle, comforting hum of his grandmother's voice. He remembered being a little boy, no older than six, sitting on her lap as she sang him lullabies, her hands soft and wrinkled, but so warm, gently patting his back.
He could almost smell the familiar scent of her kitchen—the aroma of freshly baked parathas, the warmth of masala chai, and the tangy scent of pickles she used to make every summer. She had this way of making every meal feel like a grand feast, even if it was just simple roti and sabzi. Dhruv's eyes softened as he remembered the way she'd call his name, her voice lilting with affection, "Dhruv, beta, come eat. You'll grow strong like a tree."
Gorgo noticed the distant look on Dhruv's face, but for once, he didn't say anything. He could sense the shift, the way Dhruv's breathing had slowed, how his eyes had softened. This wasn't a moment for jokes, and even Gorgo, in his demon form, could feel the weight of the past pressing down.
As they continued on their journey, the memories kept coming—bright and vivid, yet tinged with the ache of loss. Dhruv remembered the way his grandmother used to walk him to school, her hands gentle yet firm as they held his. She'd always pack an extra lunch, saying, "In case you make a new friend today," and Dhruv would roll his eyes but secretly hope that maybe, just maybe, today he'd find someone to share it with. And sometimes, when he was feeling particularly brave, he'd bring back a friend after school, and his grandma would welcome them with a smile so warm, they'd forget their shyness almost instantly.
But the memories weren't all happy. The autorickshaw bumped over a pothole, and Dhruv's heart jolted, bringing with it a different kind of memory. One he wished he could forget but knew he never would. He was 14, sitting by her bedside, holding her hand that felt colder than usual. She was so weak, her voice barely a whisper, but she still tried to smile at him, as if to reassure him that everything would be okay.
"Dhruv… listen to me," she had said, her breath coming in short, painful gasps. "You're going to grow up into a fine young man. You have such a good heart… don't let the world take that away from you."
Dhruv had tried to hold back his tears, tried to be strong for her. But he was just a boy, and he didn't understand why someone who had given him so much love, who had been his entire world, was slipping away from him. He had squeezed her hand, as if he could somehow keep her there, keep her from leaving. "Please, Grandma… don't go."
She had looked at him, her eyes gentle and kind, even as they were filled with pain. "I'll always be with you, Dhruv," she had whispered. "Just promise me… you'll take care of yourself. And… don't forget to smile. Even when things get tough… especially then."
Those were her last words to him. And then, just like that, she was gone. Dhruv remembered how he'd clung to her hand long after it had gone still, not wanting to let go, because letting go meant admitting she was really gone. He had cried until there were no tears left, his chest aching, his throat raw. The world had felt so much colder, so much emptier without her.
As the autorickshaw neared the old neighborhood, Dhruv felt a lump rising in his throat. The banyan tree was visible now, its branches stretching out like a silent, ancient guardian. His grandmother's house was just around the corner, but to Dhruv, it felt like a world away, lost in a time he couldn't quite reach anymore.
Gorgo glanced at Dhruv, noticing the glistening tears that Dhruv was trying so hard to hold back. He could see the struggle, the way Dhruv's hands gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white. Gorgo didn't understand everything about humans, but he knew what loss looked like. He'd seen it countless times, in different forms, across different realms. And he knew that, for Dhruv, this wasn't just a journey through the city. It was a journey back to a time when his heart was whole, before it had been shattered by loss.
The autorickshaw came to a stop, and Dhruv slowly got out, staring at the house. It looked almost the same as it always had—small, a little worn around the edges, but still standing. The garden she used to tend was overgrown now, weeds sprouting where flowers once bloomed. But in his mind, he could still see her there, crouched down, planting seeds, her hands gentle as she patted the earth.
Dhruv swallowed, blinking back the tears. He could almost hear her voice, soft and loving, calling out to him. "Dhruv, beta, come inside. Dinner's ready."
But when he opened his eyes, the house was silent. And he was alone.
Dhruv stood there, frozen, staring at the old, familiar house. The air around him felt heavy, suffocating, as if the past was wrapping itself around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter. The memories, once a comforting balm, now felt like sharp, jagged shards cutting deep into his heart. He had tried so hard to stay composed, to keep it all buried inside, but standing there, in front of the place that held every ounce of his childhood, it all came crashing down.
His legs felt weak, and before he knew it, he was sinking to his knees on the cracked, dusty path leading up to the front door. A sob escaped his throat, raw and broken, and then another, until he was crying, really crying, the kind of cry that comes from a place so deep inside, it hurts. The tears streamed down his face, unchecked, as he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the weight of all the pain he had carried for so long.
He was 14 again, sitting by her bedside, pleading with her to stay, to not leave him alone in a world that felt so big and frightening without her. He was the little boy who would run into her arms after school, the one who would fall asleep to the sound of her voice, the one who didn't know how to live in a world where she wasn't there. And now, all those years later, he was still that boy, lost and scared, crying for someone who would never come back.
The silence around him was deafening. It was as if the whole world had stopped, watching him break apart piece by piece. And there, in the midst of that suffocating silence, Dhruv let out a cry, a loud, desperate wail that echoed through the empty street. It was a sound filled with all the grief, all the longing, and all the love he had for her—a love that had no place to go anymore.
Gorgo stood a few steps away, watching in stunned silence. For once, the demon didn't know what to do, didn't have any snarky remarks or sarcastic comments. He had seen humans cry before, seen them grieve, but this was different. This was raw, unfiltered pain, a kind of sorrow that even he, with all his centuries of existence, couldn't fully grasp. It wasn't just about loss; it was about the ache of living without someone who had been the very foundation of your world.
Gorgo felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation twisting in his chest. Sympathy? Pity? He didn't know. All he knew was that Dhruv's cries were the most human thing he had ever heard, and it made something deep inside him feel hollow and cold.
Without really thinking, Gorgo slowly approached Dhruv. He was careful, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to make it better, but he figured that maybe, just maybe, Dhruv didn't need words right now. So, he did the only thing he could think of—he reached out and placed a hand on Dhruv's trembling shoulder.
It was a small, tentative touch, but it was steady, firm, like a silent promise that even though he didn't understand, he was there. Dhruv flinched at first, startled by the contact, but when he felt the weight of Gorgo's hand, he didn't pull away. Instead, he cried harder, the tears flowing freely now, as if that small gesture had opened a floodgate inside him.
Gorgo stood there, his hand still on Dhruv's shoulder, and just let him cry. He didn't say a word, didn't try to shush him or tell him to calm down. He just let Dhruv's pain fill the empty air around them, letting it be as loud and messy as it needed to be. Because even though Gorgo didn't understand everything about humans, he understood that sometimes, you had to let the pain out, no matter how much it hurt.
The two of them stayed there, in the dim light of the evening, with Dhruv's sobs echoing softly against the silent, old house. And for that moment, it didn't matter that Gorgo was a demon and Dhruv was just a boy struggling to make sense of a world that had been so cruel to him. It didn't matter that they came from different realms, different lives. All that mattered was that Gorgo was there, and Dhruv wasn't alone in his grief, even if it was just for a little while.
And as the tears slowly began to dry, Dhruv felt a small, fragile comfort in that simple, silent presence. It didn't take away the pain, didn't make the loss any easier, but it reminded him, in a quiet, gentle way, that he hadn't been completely forgotten. That even in his darkest, most painful moments, there was still someone who cared enough to stand beside him.
Dhruv's body shook with the force of his cries, each sob tearing through him like a wave crashing against a fragile shore. For so long, he had held back this grief, hiding it behind a stoic mask, but now, the dam had burst. All the memories, all the pain, came rushing out, flooding his mind.
As he cried, the world around him seemed to blur, the shadows of the house mixing with his tears. He could still see glimpses of his grandmother—sitting in her favorite chair, humming softly while knitting a sweater, or tending to her plants with that gentle, knowing smile. She was always there, her presence like a soft, steady light that guided him through the darkest times. And then, there was the image he had never been able to forget, no matter how hard he tried: her frail figure lying on the bed, her breathing shallow, her eyes distant but still so full of love as she whispered those final words to him.
"Take care of yourself, my little one... and take care of my memory."
Those words echoed in his mind, as if she was right there, speaking to him again. But there was no more warmth, no more gentle hand to hold. Just the emptiness that had followed her passing. Dhruv had been just fourteen then, too young to understand what it meant to say goodbye forever. He had watched helplessly as the life faded from her eyes, the woman who had been his whole world slipping away, leaving him behind with a heart too heavy to carry.
As he remembered that moment, the pain was as raw as it had been all those years ago. It felt like his heart was being torn apart all over again. His cries grew louder, more desperate, as if by sheer force he could bring her back, even for just one more moment. But there was no answer, just the cold, unyielding silence of the empty house.
Gorgo stood beside him, watching in silence. He didn't understand the full extent of Dhruv's sorrow, but he could feel the depth of it. He had seen many souls pass, many faces twisted with regret, but there was something different about this. This wasn't just grief; it was a loss that had shaped Dhruv's very being, a wound that had never been allowed to heal.
Gorgo hesitated, unsure of what to do. He was not used to offering comfort—he was just a guide, a watcher, someone who observed from a distance. But there was something about Dhruv's cries, something so profoundly human, that made him want to reach out. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed his hand on Dhruv's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, almost insignificant, but in that moment, it was everything.
Dhruv felt the touch, and it jolted him out of his spiral of grief. It was a gentle, almost hesitant weight on his shoulder, but it brought him back, grounding him in the present. For a moment, he was no longer a fourteen-year-old boy watching his world crumble. He was here, with Gorgo, in the remnants of his grandmother's home.
The touch reminded him of her, of how she would rest her hand on his shoulder, comforting him with just a look. It was as if, through Gorgo, she was reaching out to him, telling him that it was okay to grieve, to let it out.
And then, deep within him, Dhruv felt something shift. It was like a tightly wound spring finally being released, a thorn slowly being pulled from a wound that had festered for too long. One of the arrows of regret that had been buried deep within his heart disappeared, leaving behind a strange, aching emptiness. It hurt, but it also felt like a release, like a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding finally being let out.
Gorgo watched Dhruv's face, saw the way his features softened, even as tears continued to fall. He didn't know what was happening, but he could sense that something inside Dhruv had changed. The cries became quieter, the sobs less violent, until all that was left was a soft, steady stream of tears.
Dhruv didn't know if he was healing, or if he was just finally beginning to understand the depth of his pain. But for the first time, he allowed himself to feel it all—the love, the loss, the regret. He cried for the happy moments he would never get back, for the future they would never share, and for the boy who had been left to face a world without her.
Gorgo's hand remained on his shoulder, unmoving, a silent promise that he wasn't alone. For now, that was enough for him....
The scene shifted abruptly, as if reality itself had been ripped apart, plunging everything into a cold, silent void. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by a low, ominous hum, like the distant echoes of thunder rolling across an endless sky. Slowly, the darkness gave way to the blinding, harsh light of a battlefield, and the air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and fear.
It was Kurukshetra—the site of the great Mahabharata war, where gods and men clashed, where destinies were sealed, and where countless lives were lost. The ground was littered
(*Reference to the prologue chapter *)
The boy's body continued to disappear, now only his head remained. His tear-filled eyes locked onto Karna's, unwilling to let go of the bond they had forged. "No... please..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.
But Karna remained resolute, his gaze filled with both gratitude and acceptance. "Thank you for becoming my first friend, Veeraa... irrespective of my caste. Thank you for everything." His words were a final gift, a recognition of the connection they had shared, even if only for a brief moment in the vastness of time.
And with that, the boy vanished completely, leaving only the echoes of his sorrow behind. Karna stood alone once more, his spirit glowing softly in the fading light of the battlefield. The weight of all that had happened lingered in the air, but within him, there was a newfound sense of peace—a peace that came from knowing he had not walked this path alone.
As the last remnants of Veeraa's form dissolved into the air, the battlefield around Karna seemed to fade into a haunting stillness. The clamor of war, the clash of steel, and the cries of agony that had once roared like an endless storm, now felt distant—like memories slipping away, just as Veeraa had.
Karna's heart was heavy, but there was a warmth within it that had never been there before. He had spent a lifetime carrying burdens of isolation, rejection, and the curse of his unknown parentage. Yet, in those final moments, a boy had come to him—not as a warrior, not as an enemy, but as a friend. A friend who had seen beyond the armor...
Karna's spirit, glowing faintly, drifted back into his lifeless body on the battlefield. The sun had set, casting a dark, somber blanket over Kurukshetra, and the once chaotic field of war now lay eerily silent. Karna's body, battered and bloodied, rested alone amid the ruins of broken chariots, fallen horses, and countless warriors who had met their end. But for Karna, this was not the end. He was waiting—waiting for Yamaraj, the god of death, to claim his soul and guide him to his next destination.
Moments later, the air seemed to shiver, as if the very fabric of reality was being bent by a powerful force. Out of the darkness, a tall, imposing figure emerged, clad in dark robes that flowed like shadows around him. His eyes glowed with a deep, ancient wisdom, and his presence commanded a reverent silence. It was Yamaraj, the god of death, his aura exuding both authority and compassion. In one hand, he held a staff, and in the other, a golden noose—the instrument with which he would guide souls to their final rest.
Yamaraj approached Karna's body, his steps slow and deliberate. He stood before the fallen warrior, his gaze softening as he looked down at Karna's still form. There was no pity in his eyes, only a deep, abiding respect. "Karna," he spoke, his voice resonating across the battlefield, echoing like the toll of a great bell. "You were a warrior like no other—brave, selfless, and noble. Born of the Sun God, yet you lived your life shrouded in shadows. You fought for honor, not for glory, and stood true to your word even when it meant certain death."
Yamaraj's words were heavy, filled with a solemn admiration. "Many have praised your skills, but few understand the true greatness of your spirit. You were betrayed by fate, but you never wavered. Even in the face of insurmountable odds, you held onto your dharma. And for that, you will be remembered—not just as a warrior, but as a beacon of resilience, a symbol of unwavering strength."
He lifted the golden noose, ready to guide Karna's soul. "It is time to depart, Karna. Your journey on this Earth is over."
But as he reached out to grasp Karna's soul, the air around him seemed to shiver, a strange force causing a ripple that even the god of death could not ignore. Before he could react, a blinding flash cut through the darkness, and a small, fierce figure appeared from the void. Veeraa.
Without hesitation, Veeraa charged forward, his eyes blazing with an intense, almost desperate fury. Before Yamaraj could comprehend what was happening, Veeraa's fist connected with his chest, sending a shockwave through the air. The punch was not one of strength but of pure, unbridled emotion—an act driven by a love that defied the very fabric of life and death. Yamaraj stumbled back, his eyes wide with surprise, momentarily losing his balance.
For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. The god of death, who had seen countless souls pass through his realm, was stunned. Not by the impact of the blow, but by the sheer audacity and will that it carried. Veeraa stood before Karna's body, his small frame trembling, his breathing ragged, but his stance unwavering, like a shield protecting the one he cherished most. His eyes were wild, unrelenting, as if daring Yamaraj to try again.
Yamaraj steadied himself, his eyes locking onto Veeraa, but he did not move. The battlefield lay silent, the shadows stretching out around them, and for a moment, it was as if time itself had stopped. Veeraa's chest heaved, his knuckles white from how tightly he had clenched his fists, and tears streamed down his cheeks, but there was a fire in his eyes—a fire that would not be extinguished, even by death itself....
-TO BE CONTINUED