The excitement of being reborn into this strange, magical world had, over time, started to lose its shine. At first, it had all seemed like a miracle—a second chance, a fresh start. The warmth of the place, the hum of magic in the air, the soft glow of the sky... everything had felt like it was offering him something he never had before. Peace. The kind of peace he could never find in his old life, buried beneath the weight of exams, grades, expectations. The endless pressure to be someone he wasn't.
For a while, Arav had thought this was it. This was the escape he'd been dreaming of—no more deadlines, no more measuring up, no more living under the microscope. It was supposed to be a place to breathe, to rebuild himself. No more tests to pass, no more disappointments to face. A life without the constant, nagging fear that he'd never be enough.
But now, as the magic and wonder of it all began to settle into a quieter rhythm, something else crept in. It wasn't the magic that bothered him—it was the silence. The emptiness in his head that used to be filled with the noise of his old life—the constant pressure, the weight of responsibility, the feeling that everything was on him. Now, in the calm of this new world, he felt... too still. Too quiet.
Had he made the right choice?
It hadn't even occurred to him at first. In those final moments, when he'd left his old life behind, all he'd felt was relief. Like the walls that had been closing in on him for years were finally gone. Freedom, he'd thought. But now, in this peaceful world, it felt different. He couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he'd been too hasty. Maybe he'd been too tired to think clearly, too desperate to escape that he hadn't fully considered what leaving would mean. Was there really no other way out?
The faces of his family haunted him.
His mother, for one. She had always loved him, sure, but that love was always wrapped in expectations. She'd always had a vision for who he should be, who he needed to be. And he'd never quite fit into that mold. She'd always pushed him, urged him to be the best, to keep climbing, keep achieving. But did she ever really see him? Not the version she wanted, but him—just as he was. No. It was always about what he could do, what he could prove.
Would she blame herself for not being more gentle with him? Would she wonder if she had pushed him too far, too hard? He could picture her now, sitting at the kitchen table with that worried frown, her tired eyes searching his face for some kind of progress. Would she be disappointed? Would she even understand why he'd left?
And his father... that one stung. The silence between them had always been heavy, unspoken, but it had always been there. Expectations without words. Never really saying what he wanted, but always making it clear Arav could never live up to it. Would his father see this as failure? Would he think Arav had been weak for running away? He could almost hear his father's voice in his head now, asking why he hadn't been strong enough to face his problems.
Why didn't you stay and fight?
His sister. The thought of her hit harder than he expected. They'd been close once—before the world had pulled them in different directions. He should've been there for her, should've protected her, but instead, he'd left without a word. Without a goodbye. How would she feel now? Confused, probably. Angry, maybe. Would she blame him for leaving her behind, for not being the brother she needed? He'd been the older one, the one who was supposed to take care of her. But instead, he'd let her down, just like everyone else.
And then his grandmother. Her face was always the calm in his storm. The only one who never asked anything of him, never put pressure on him. She had loved him just as he was. She'd always told him to follow his heart, to be true to himself. But he hadn't done that, had he? He'd let the world push him into a corner where there didn't seem to be any way out. What would she think now? Would she cry for him? Would she pray for him, wishing that he could find the peace he'd been too scared to look for?
The weight of all of it was starting to crush him. He'd convinced himself that escaping to this new life was the right thing to do—that he was giving himself a fresh start. But now, with the quiet of this world around him, all he could think about was the damage he'd done. He'd left without thinking, without saying goodbye. He'd abandoned everyone, without even giving them a reason why.
Was it worth it?
The magic of this world, the promise of a new beginning, had started to feel empty. At first, it had been everything he wanted—freedom, peace, a second chance. But now it felt like a lie. He wasn't free. Not really. He'd just run away. He'd left his family, the people who loved him, behind without a second thought. And now, the peace he'd longed for felt hollow.
Every time he tried to move forward, something pulled him back. Not the magic of this world, but the faces of the people he had hurt. The faces of the people he had failed.
Could he really build something new here when everything he had once cared about was already broken?
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, hoping to shut out the images, the guilt. But it didn't work. His mother's disappointed face. His father's silence. His sister's confusion. His grandmother's quiet sadness. They were still there. They would always be there, no matter how far away he tried to run. They were part of him, and no amount of magic could change that.
Was this really a second chance, or was it just another way of running?
The promise of freedom in this world was starting to feel like a cruel joke. It wasn't about escaping. It was about facing what he had left behind, dealing with the mistakes, the guilt. The people he had hurt. The magic, the peace—none of that mattered if he couldn't face the consequences of his choices.
Maybe that was the second chance he needed. Not to escape from it all, but to face the things he couldn't outrun.
But could he do that? Could he find a way to make peace with the people he'd hurt, even from a distance? Could he be someone better, someone who didn't keep running away?
He didn't know. All he could do was wait. And wonder.
**Six Years Later**
Six years had passed since Arav's rebirth into this strange new world. His name was now Yash Kumar, and while the world around him was undeniably magical, it often felt like he was stuck in a haze. Beautiful, yes, full of wonder and endless possibility, but the more he tried to make sense of it, the more it seemed like something was always just out of reach.
His new family was kind, generous, and loving—his father, Rajesh, a wizard of great power; his mother, Archana, a gifted witch with a heart full of patience. They gave him everything: security, comfort, a place to call home. They loved him withal their hearts, and yet, despite all of that, something inside of Yash still felt... broken.
He wasn't the same person he had been before, but neither was he whole.
From the outside, it was easy to think Yash had it all together. He was a quiet child—polite, obedient, a little reserved—but on the surface, he looked like the perfect son. He learned magic with the same diligence his new parents had, studied hard, and followed their guidance without question. He could cast spells and solve problems easily better than any other child his age due to his previous life memories , but deep inside, it never felt like his life. It always felt like something he was just going through the motions of, not something he was living.
He tried to love them. He really did. His parents had been nothing but patient, nothing but kind, and yet every time he tried to get closer, a knot of fear would twist in his chest, and he'd pull away.
It wasn't that they weren't good to him—it wasn't that they didn't love him. They did, in their own way, but Yash couldn't let go of the fear. He couldn't fully trust their love, couldn't accept it in the way they wanted him to. Every time he looked at them, he felt like an imposter.
What if he failed them?
What if, despite everything, he wasn't good enough?
It haunted him. This gnawing feeling that no matter how much his parents loved him, he'd somehow let them down. That he would never be the son they thought he was. And every time he tried to show them the affection they deserved, the fear would freeze him in place.
Yash could see it in his father's eyes, the quiet pride, the hope that he would one day follow in Rajesh's footsteps—that he'd become a wizard just as powerful, just as respected. But Yash couldn't shake the feeling that if he failed, if his magic didn't show up the way his father hoped, it would be his fault. He couldn't bear the idea of disappointing him. Rajesh never pushed him, not directly, but Yash could always feel that hope, like a weight pressing down on him. And it scared him.
And Archana—his mother.
She was no less amazing. She had a sharp mind, a gift for magic that was almost otherworldly, and a heart so full of patience that it made Yash ache. She spent afternoons with him in the garden, teaching him spells, teaching him about the balance between nature and magic. Her love was unspoken but constant, and in a way, that made it harder. Because every time she smiled at him, every time she believed in him, he was terrified of not being able to give her the same love in return.
What if he let her down?
What if he couldn't be the son she thought he could be?
It was like a weight on his chest, a constant tightness that never quite went away. He could feel their love, but it always felt like something was in the way. He wasn't who they thought he was. He wasn't the son they expected, the one who could carry on their legacy. He was just someone pretending, doing what he thought they wanted, but never truly living up to it.
And he was so, so afraid that one day, they'd see it. That one day, they'd see through the mask and realize he wasn't the son they'd hoped for.
The more time passed, the less he understood himself. The more time passed, the more he felt like a stranger. Even now, after all these years, he was still trying to find his place, still trying to figure out how to let go of the past. The family he had abandoned in his old life still haunted him, and no matter how much his new parents loved him, he couldn't escape the guilt. He had left them all without a word—without even a goodbye. His mother's face still lingered in his memory, full of worry and regret. His father's disappointed silence. His sister's confused anger.
He had failed them. He had failed them all. And now, here, he was doing the same thing again, wasn't he? His new family was giving him everything, and yet all he could think about was how he would fail them, too.
It wasn't fair to them. He knew that. He wasn't the son they thought they had. He wasn't even sure he knew how to be their son, and that terrified him. Every time they showed him love, every time they gave him the warmth of their affection, he felt the fear rise again, stronger than ever.
He smiled when it was needed. He did his lessons, he practiced his spells. But nothing felt real. None of it felt like his life. He wasn't living; he was simply existing.
The worst part was knowing it wasn't fair to them
Rajesh and Archana had been nothing but patient. They'd given him time, space, love. But he couldn't give them the one thing they needed in return: his heart. Every time they looked at him, every time they believed in him, he was filled with a sickening sense of fear. What if he let them down? What if he wasn't good enough to live up to their love?
He was scared of what they might think of him if they ever knew the truth—that he couldn't love them the way they needed him to. That no matter how much they tried to teach him, to nurture him, there was always a part of him that was locked away, too terrified to open up. And the guilt from his old life made it worse. What if he hurt them like he had hurt his family back then?
So he withdrew.
Not because he didn't care. Not because he didn't want to love them. But because he was too afraid to. He couldn't bear the thought of getting close, only to fail them. He couldn't bear the thought of loving them, then letting them down when it mattered most.
And so, he became a ghost in his own life.
Six years of living with the constant weight of his fear and guilt. Six years of trying to convince himself that he could be the son they needed, but never truly believing it. He wasn't living. He was just... going through the motions.
But the worst part? The worst part was knowing that it wasn't fair to them. They deserved more. They deserved his love, his full heart. But how could he give that when he was too afraid to face it?
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, stretching shadows across the open fields as Yash walked aimlessly, his steps slow and heavy. The golden light painted the landscape in hues of amber and rose, and yet, he felt none of the warmth. His feet sank softly into the earth with each step, the smell of rich soil and fresh grass filling his lungs. But none of it mattered. It didn't reach him. Nothing did anymore.
The mango trees lining the fields were ripe with fruit, their branches heavy with the promise of sweetness. He could almost taste the tang of it on his tongue, the sticky juice that would trickle down his chin and coat his fingers. But he wasn't hungry. He wasn't even thirsty. He had come here for something else entirely. Space.
He needed space to breathe, to think, to escape the invisible weight that clung to him like a second skin. Expectations. The ones from his family, the ones he placed on himself, the ones he feared were already written into his fate. Every time he thought about them—about the path they wanted him to follow, about the person they thought he was—his chest tightened, like a vise slowly squeezing the air out of him.
He had been alive again for six years. But it didn't feel like a second chance. It didn't feel like he was any different than the boy who had come before. Yashwasn't a new name. Not really. It was just a new skin, a new body—but the same old fears. He had tried, he really had. He had tried to love his new family. His father, Rajesh, with his quiet strength, his quiet expectations that Yash never fully understood. And his mother, Archana, who had given him nothing but warmth and love, even when Yash couldn't seem to return it in full.
But every time he looked at them, all he saw was their hope for him—hope he didn't deserve. Hope that he was too afraid to live up to.
He wasn't the son they thought he was.
He wasn't the boy they dreamed of, the one who could carry the weight of their pride. He wasn't the one who would make them proud with each success, each new milestone. He was just...him. But who was he, really?
The familiar taste of guilt sat on his tongue, sharp and bitter. The more he tried to fit into the life they had so graciously given him, the more he felt like an imposter. How could he be the son they needed when he wasn't even sure who he was anymore
Yash ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the mango treebefore him. His eyes scanned the ripe fruit hanging low, but the sight of it did nothing to stir his hunger. He reached up and plucked one, biting into the smooth flesh of it. The sweet juice dripped down his chin, but the taste was… hollow. It wasn't like the mangoes he had eaten in his previous life, those moments of comfort and familiarity. Here, everything felt muted. He was just going through the motions, putting on a mask for his family's sake.
As his fingers brushed the mango's skin, something caught his eye, something out of place amidst the sea of green. Beneath the tall grass at his feet, something was half-buried in the earth—a small wooden box. The wood was dark, weathered with age, the grain rough under his touch. It didn't look like it belonged in this serene place. But what really stood out was the symbol carved into the top. It was simple, yet striking: a swastika.
His breath hitched. It was a symbol he knew well—a part of his past life. He had grown up with it, seen it carved into temples and altars. A mark of auspiciousness, of blessings. A mark of transformation.
But this was different. Something about the box, the way it was placed here, felt wrong. It wasn't just a relic. It was calling to him.
Yash's fingers hesitated above the swastika, his heart racing. The moment his skin made contact with the wood, a sharp jolt of energy shot through his chest. The world around him seemed to shudder, the air thickening with a hum, a deep resonance that vibrated through his very bones. Before he could react, everything around him spun, the ground beneath his feet suddenly shifting, twisting, like the fabric of reality itself was being pulled apart.
He stumbled, disoriented, as the world blurred and twisted before him.
When the dizziness finally faded, Yash blinked rapidly, his heart still pounding. The air around him felt different. The earth beneath his feet was softer, richer. The scents of the land were more vivid—the scent of fresh grass, the sweet fragrance of flowers, the distant scent of cattle. The world seemed alive in a way that felt… strange. But the strangest thing of all was the profound sense of peace that settled over him. Where was he?
Yash spun in a slow circle, trying to make sense of the land. The open fields stretched before him, wide and lush.The land was beautiful, untouched, but it didn't feel like his world. The familiar sights of his home—his father's house, his family, the mango trees—seemed like a distant memory now. He could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, but it was a different kind of warmth. A warmth he had never known before.
There was a sound in the distance, faint but unmistakable. The soft, lilting melody of a flute. It was strange—almost haunting, yet soothing, as if the notes themselves carried with them the whispers of ancient spirits. Yash's feet moved on their own, drawn to the music, the calming pull of the rhythm. His mind buzzed with confusion, but his body moved forward, one step at a time, as if the music was calling him.
As he drew closer, he saw him—a boy, standing in the middle of a wide clearing. He was a few years older than Yash, but his presence was undeniable. He wore simple clothes, a faint, almost ethereal glow around him. But it wasn't just his appearance that caught Yash's attention. It was the peacock feather that rested in his hair, the subtle grace with which he held the flute. The boy's eyes were closed, his fingers moving effortlessly across the instrument, weaving melodies that seemed to speak directly to Yash's soul.
Yash stopped at the edge of the clearing, watching in awe. The music felt ancient, as if it had been passed down through generations, a thread that connected the past, present, and future. It settled the chaos in his mind, the storm of doubts and fears that had been swirling inside him for so long.
When the boy finally lowered the flute and turned, there was no surprise in his gaze. No shock at Yash's presence. He simply looked at him, his expression calm, knowing, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
"You've come," the boy said, his voice soft but clear, the words floating on the air with the same grace as his music.
Yash blinked, his mind still reeling. "Where am I? How did I get here?" His voice felt fragile, like the question was a stranger to his tongue.
The boy studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "Magic has a way of finding those it chooses. And you've been chosen."
Yash's heart skipped a beat. "Chosen? I didn't choose this. I don't even know how I got here!"
The boy nodded slowly, his gaze steady. "The world doesn't always let us choose the path we walk. Sometimes, it chooses us."
Yash stood there, silent, trying to grasp the words. "But why am I here? What is this place?"
The boy took a step closer, his presence calm and assured. The peacock feather in his hair shimmered in the soft light. "The swastika is an ancient symbol," he said, his voice almost reverent. "It represents transformation, the crossing into a new world. It calls those who need to hear its call."
Yash swallowed hard. The weight of the boy's words sank into his chest. "The swastika... It's just a symbol, isn't it? A part of my old life."
The boy smiled knowingly. "It is a symbol. But it is also much more. It marks a turning point. A chance to leave the old behind, to walk a new path. A path meant only for you."
Yash's thoughts swirled. "I don't know who I am anymore," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm afraid. Afraid that I'll fail again. I don't want to hurt anyone again."
The boy studied him, his eyes seeming to pierce through Yash's confusion. "You carry your fears with you," he said gently. "But fear is a shadow. It grows only in the darkness. If you wish to find the light, you must learn to let go of the shadows."
Yash looked down, his chest tightening as he felt the truth of the boy's words resonate deep inside him. He had been so focused on the expectations of others, so scared of failing, that he had forgotten.
"Who are you"Yash asks the boy
"Krishna"
The boy introduced himself as KRISHNA , yash didn't think much of it, Krishna sat back on the stone and started playing the flute again.Once again ,the peace,calmness yash felt was something he never felt before ,He closed his eyes and enjoyed.
The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden light through the trees as Krishna led Yash deeper into the forest. The boy, despite his youthful appearance, seemed to exude a sense of timelessness—an energy that Yash couldn't quite place. Krishna's every step seemed to flow with a rhythm of its own, like he was attuned to some greater harmony that Yash couldn't hear.
"So," Yash asked, his voice cutting through the peaceful silence, "where are we going now?"
Krishna paused and looked around, his gaze sweeping over the towering trees, the vibrant flowers, the chirping birds. He seemed to be looking for something, his eyes sparkling with an ancient knowing. "Wherever the day takes us," he replied lightly. "There is wisdom in surrendering to the flow, Yash. You can't control the winds, but you can learn to sail with them."
Yash furrowed his brow. "I've heard that before… but it's not as easy as it sounds."
Krishna grinned, the playful glint in his eyes never fading. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong. You *think* it's hard because you're trying to control it. The key is to stop controlling and start participating."
Yash crossed his arms, skeptical but intrigued. "Participating? How?"
Krishna gestured broadly, as though embracing everything in their surroundings—the tall trees, the birds soaring above, the very air that seemed to hum with unseen life. "You are part of the game, Yash. The game of life. The universe is not something you can command or force into a mold of your making. It is like a vast ocean, constantly moving and shifting. You are a wave in that ocean, and the more you fight against the current, the harder it will be to move forward."
Yash stopped walking, a thought tugging at his mind. "So you're saying I should just let go? Let life carry me wherever it wants?"
Krishna smiled, but his eyes softened with a deeper, almost sorrowful wisdom. "Not quite. You see, there's a difference between letting life carry you and surrendering to it without purpose. Life is not a thing to be blindly followed, nor is it something to be resisted. It's a dance, a play. You are a player in it, just as I am." He gave Yash a sly smile. "But, unlike most, I understand how the dance unfolds. I can hear the music before it's played."
Yash blinked. "Wait, what do you mean, you can hear the music?"
Krishna chuckled softly, his voice light but with a hint of something deeper behind it. "You'll understand one day. Life moves in cycles, and every cycle has a rhythm. The world follows a certain order, but most of us are too caught up in our little parts to see the whole symphony."
Yash looked confused. "So, you're saying you know everything that's going to happen?"
Krishna's eyes twinkled with mischief, but there was something else in his expression—something far older, far wiser than Yash had seen before. "I don't claim to know everything. But there is a way to see beyond the veil of what is obvious. To see how things come together, how they must come together. In the end, the universe has a way of balancing itself." He paused, watching Yash intently. "Some people are born to be great players in this game; others are meant to watch. I'm just… one of those who helps guide things along."
Yash's head swam with questions, but he wasn't sure what to ask next. The way Krishna spoke, it felt as though he knew something about the world that no one else did, a deeper understanding of the way everything fit together. Yash had the sense that Krishna wasn't just some boy, but someone who had seen the world in a way that was beyond human comprehension.
Krishna smiled as though sensing Yash's growing uncertainty. "Don't worry, Yash," he said with a reassuring tone. "You're not meant to understand everything today. The answers will come when the time is right. Trust in the journey, and let it unfold." He grinned playfully, changing the subject. "For now, let's see where the next turn takes us."
They continued walking in comfortable silence, the forest around them bathed in the fading light of the day. As they went, Yash tried to shake off the feeling that Krishna had given him a glimpse of something too large for him to comprehend. But he couldn't shake the sense that the boy had somehow known more than he was letting on.
As they came to a small clearing, Krishna stopped and motioned for Yash to sit beside him on a large rock. The sun was almost gone, leaving only the cool twilight behind.
"Do you know," Krishna said suddenly, his voice thoughtful, "that every action you take has a ripple? You think your decisions are small, insignificant—but they echo out across time and space in ways you'll never fully understand."
Yash shifted uncomfortably. "You keep saying things like that. About… echoes and ripples. What do you mean?"
Krishna's gaze grew distant, almost as if he were looking beyond the present moment. "When you understand the true nature of existence, Yash, you realize that everything—everything—is connected. No one is ever truly alone. Every action, every thought, every word, ripples through the fabric of the universe. It may seem small, but it is far more significant than you can imagine. You and I, the trees, the stars, the winds—we are all connected in ways that transcend time."
Yash stared at Krishna, a strange sensation stirring inside him. For a brief moment, it felt as though Krishna wasn't just speaking to him in the here and now, but was somehow speaking across the entire span of existence. As if his words were reaching out to Yash from beyond time itself.
Krishna turned back to him, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I'm not saying that you can know everything at once," he added with a wink. "But if you watch closely, you might start to see the patterns. The threads that weave it all together."
Yash was silent, feeling a mixture of awe and confusion. "But how can I see them? I can't even see what's right in front of me most of the time."
Krishna laughed, his voice light and teasing. "Ah, Yash. You'll see, in time. For now, just know that you are part of something much bigger than you can imagine. And even the smallest moment, the smallest choice, has a place in the grand design."
Yash felt a strange knot form in his chest, as though he were standing on the edge of something vast—something that could either swallow him whole or reveal a truth he wasn't ready to accept. But Krishna wasn't pushing him to understand. He was simply letting Yash be where he was, knowing that all would come in time.
As the night deepened and the stars began to appear, Krishna stood up, his body glowing faintly in the soft moonlight. "The game continues," he said, brushing off the seat of his pants. "Shall we play a little longer?"
Yash stood too, but this time, the question that had been lingering in his mind for days finally came to the surface. "Krishna," he said, his voice tentative. "Are you… more than what you seem? More than just… a boy?"
Krishna smiled knowingly, a touch of mystery in his eyes. "Ah, Yash. The game has many players, and many roles. Perhaps I am more than I appear—but the truth, like the answer to any good game, will reveal itself when the time is right." He winked. "For now, let's enjoy the play, hm?"
Yash stared after him as he walked ahead, a sudden weight in his chest. He didn't know exactly what Krishna had meant, but for the first time, he had a feeling—just a hint—that the boy was far more than he appeared to be. There was something cosmic, something beyond the surface of this playful, charming figure. Krishna wasn't just a player in the game of life—he was somehow the one who knew the rules, the one who understood how the pieces would fall.
And Yash? He was still figuring out which pieces he was meant to move..
Yash and Krishna sat in the same meadow, the evening breeze gently swaying the grass around them. They'd spent the day talking—about everything from the nature of the universe to the best ways to enjoy a meal. But as usual, Krishna's playfulness had taken the conversation to unexpected places.
"So, Krishna," Yash said, stretching his arms above his head. "You're always talking about life being a game and how everything is part of some bigger plan. But sometimes it just feels like... we're just wandering around without any purpose, you know?"
Krishna, lounging lazily against a tree, didn't immediately answer. He watched a bird fly past and seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then, with a mischievous smile, he looked back at Yash.
"Ah, Yash," Krishna said, "you're still looking for patterns, aren't you? You think everything should make sense, that there's some big, obvious purpose behind everything. But let me tell you something: sometimes, the best part of life is playing with the confusion."
Yash chuckled. He'd heard this before. Krishna was always full of riddles and philosophy. But there was something oddly comforting about the way he spoke—like nothing was ever quite as serious as it seemed.
"Yeah, I get that," Yash replied, leaning back on his hands. "But still, it doesn't feel like we're all just wandering around with no real point. I mean, there's got to be something more."
Krishna's eyes twinkled. "Of course there's more. But let me ask you this, Yash—how do you think a game is played?"
Yash frowned, unsure of where Krishna was going with this. "Well, I guess... you follow the rules?"
Krishna laughed softly. "Ah, rules. Yes, there are rules. But sometimes the real fun is in bending them, breaking them, playing with them. What if I told you I've spent a lot of my life doing just that?"
Yash raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? What, like... bending the rules of the universe or something?"
Krishna shrugged nonchalantly. "Something like that. Like, for example, I've had over 16,000 wives."
Yash blinked, hearing the number. But the words didn't register—not in the way they should have. It was so absurd, so ridiculous, that he just couldn't take it seriously. He knew Krishna well enough to know that he loved spinning tales, playing tricks, and making wild claims just to see the look on people's faces.
Yash burst into laughter, the idea of Krishna having 16,000 wives just too much to handle. "Sixteen thousand wives? Oh, *come on*, Krishna. You're joking, right? That's a *serious* exaggeration."
Krishna gave him an exaggerated wink. "Oh, you think so? You don't believe me?"
"Of course not!" Yash said, still laughing. "That's... that's insane! Even you can't handle 16,000 wives."
Krishna smiled slyly. "Well, I did handle them. All of them. Each one was a different aspect of devotion, of course." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping slightly. "But the real secret is that I had a lot of time to figure it out. Time is the ultimate game-changer, Yash."
Yash rolled his eyes, still chuckling. "Oh, sure. Time. Right. I'm sure it was all about devotion and philosophy with those 16,000 women." He leaned back against the tree, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Man, you really know how to spin a story."
Krishna grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "It's not about spinning stories, Yash. It's about playing with life, playing with the game. The number doesn't matter. It's the play that matters."
Yash wiped a tear from his eye, still smiling. "Yeah, right. Sixteen thousand wives. I'm sure it was all very spiritual."
Krishna laughed, his deep, carefree chuckle filling the air. "Exactly. You're starting to get it."
Yash, still half in disbelief, leaned back further, staring up at the sky. "You're impossible, Krishna. You know that?"
Krishna stretched lazily, his expression taking on a more thoughtful look. "Life's impossible, Yash. The moment you think you have it all figured out, it surprises you. The play, the game, it's all meant to keep you on your toes. The trick is not to take it too seriously."
Yash nodded, his laughter fading into a comfortable silence. "Yeah, I guess you're right. But 16,000 wives? Man, you really know how to tell a story."
Krishna's smile deepened. "The best stories are the ones you don't take too seriously. That's when the fun begins."
Yash shook his head, still smiling. "You really have no filter, do you?"
"Filters are overrated," Krishna said with a grin. "Why hide the truth when you can enjoy the madness of it all?"
Yash laughed again, feeling more at ease than he had all day. The ridiculousness of the conversation, the absurdity of Krishna's claims, all felt normal in this moment. Krishna's playful nature had that effect on him. He didn't have to take anything seriously—especially not claims as wild as 16,000 wives. Krishna was just... Krishna. And this was just another one of his outrageous stories.
"You're right," Yash said, still chuckling under his breath. "Filters are definitely overrated. Especially when it comes to you."
Krishna laughed along, his voice rich with amusement. "There you go! And remember, Yash, the game isn't about how many wives you have. It's about how you play with the game itself."
Yash looked over at Krishna, still smiling, but now with a sense of deeper understanding. He hadn't quite figured out the game, but he had learned one thing today: with Krishna, it was best to just go along for the ride.
"So, what's next?" Yash asked, wiping his face of the last lingering smile.
"Oh, there's always more to the game, Yash," Krishna said, standing up and offering him a hand. "But that's for another day. Let's go. The play never ends."
Yash stood up, shaking his head with a grin. "I'm not sure I'm ready for any more of your insane stories today, Krishna."
Krishna laughed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, you'll be ready. You always are."
And so, the two of them walked off into the evening light, with Yash still half-laughing, half-thinking about Krishna's ridiculous claim of 16,000 wives. But even as the number lingered in his mind, Yash didn't give it a second thought. Krishna was, after all, just Krishna—always playing, always joking, always keeping things light.
It was only when they were a good distance from the meadow, walking toward the distant horizon, that Yash realized something. He had never *once* questioned Krishna's absurdity. He had never wondered if there was something more behind those words—because Krishna was simply that impossible, that carefree, that playful. And sometimes, that was enough