Yash and Krishna walked along the winding path in silence, the quiet rustling of the trees the only sound that accompanied them. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest floor. Krishna had been speaking in riddles, explaining concepts Yash could barely grasp, each word both comforting and infuriating. There were things Krishna said that sounded so right—so wise—but then there were others that gnawed at Yash's insides, like a quiet doubt that wouldn't leave him alone.
After another long stretch of silence, Yash couldn't hold it in any longer. He stopped walking, his hand clutching his chest like he could contain the storm of thoughts inside.
"Krishna, you're not making any sense," Yash said, his voice tight with frustration. "You're talking about the soul, about fate, and how everything is connected. But… none of this changes anything. It doesn't change the way things have happened to me. It doesn't undo the things I've done."
Krishna, who had been walking just ahead, paused and turned back with a knowing smile. "What are you holding onto, Yash?" he asked, his voice soft, but there was an edge to it that made Yash feel like he was under a microscope.
"Everything," Yash said bitterly, his fists clenching at his sides. "All the mistakes. The things I can't take back. The people I hurt. And this… this emptiness that keeps eating away at me. You're talking about detachment, about being free from attachment, but how am I supposed to let go when all I feel is guilt?" His voice cracked, a sharpness in it that surprised even him.
Krishna's expression softened, though there was still a playful spark in his eyes. "You think you're the only one who's ever carried guilt, Yash?"
Yash looked up at him, angry and yet vulnerable. "What do you know about guilt? You talk like you've never made a mistake. Like you've never hurt someone."
Krishna took a step closer, his gaze calm, but deep. "Guilt is a weight you carry only if you believe the past has power over you. But the past is like a shadow, Yash. It follows you, yes, but only because you let it. You are not your mistakes."
"Not my mistakes?" Yash's laugh was bitter, almost derisive. "Then what the hell am I? How do you move past things you've done to people who will never forgive you?" His chest tightened as memories of his past mistakes swirled around him, sharp and painful.
Krishna was quiet for a long moment. Then, he spoke softly, but with an authority that made Yash stop in his tracks. "Do you really think you're the only one who's caused harm, Yash? The world is full of people who've done things they regret. But it's not your actions that define you—it's how you move forward from them. Every moment is a chance to change. To choose differently. You can't erase the past, but you can free yourself from being shackled by it."
Yash stared at him, his mind racing. "You say that, but it doesn't feel real. I try to move on, but that… that feeling of worthlessness never goes away. It's like I'm always trapped in what I did." His voice dropped to a whisper, raw with the weight of his own shame. "Sometimes I think maybe I deserve it. That everything that's happened to me is just… karma. It's what I deserve."
Krishna stepped even closer, his eyes locking with Yash's. "You think everything in life is a punishment? That everything is set up to remind you of what you've done wrong?" His tone was gentle but firm, like he was speaking to someone who was too afraid to look up and see the bigger picture. "Karma is not a chain, Yash. It's a mirror. It reflects your choices, but it doesn't define you. The past can teach you, yes. But it's not your prison."
Yash turned away, his hands trembling. He was afraid of being weak, afraid of showing how deep the confusion and guilt really went. "And if I can't change?" he muttered, almost to himself. "What if I'm just too far gone to change? What if I'm not meant to change?"
"That's just fear talking," Krishna replied softly, his voice unexpectedly warm. "The only thing that keeps you stuck in the past is the belief that you're powerless to change. But you're not. You have the power to decide who you become, no matter what you've done."
Yash shook his head, the knot in his chest only growing tighter. "I'm not sure I can believe that. It's easy for you to say. You've never had to deal with real consequences. You haven't lived my life."
Krishna's expression softened with a hint of sorrow, but his eyes remained steady. "You think I don't understand consequences?" His voice dropped lower, a quiet intensity replacing the playfulness. "Do you know what it's like to have the world expect you to be perfect? To be flawless? I've seen the suffering of those who believe they must be more than human. I've carried the weight of entire worlds, of destinies that were never mine to choose. The only difference between you and me is that I know the truth: you are not the sum of your mistakes, Yash. You are the possibility of what you could become. And that is more than enough."
Yash was silent, his mind running over Krishna's words. But despite everything, there was still a part of him that didn't know how to believe it. "I don't know what you mean. I don't know how to live like that. How do I stop seeing myself through the lens of everything I've done wrong?"
Krishna smiled, his eyes warm with something like understanding. "It's not about forgetting, Yash. It's about remembering who you truly are beneath everything you've done. The soul is not the body, nor the actions it carries out. You are more than what you think you are."
Yash frowned, shaking his head again. "I don't know how to see beyond that. How do I stop being haunted by the past?"
Krishna's voice was quiet, but certain. "By realizing that your past does not dictate your future. The soul is not born, nor does it die. It is eternal, indestructible. The things you've done may have shaped who you are, but they do not have to define who you will become. You have the right to act, but never the right to the fruit of your actions. The results of your choices are not in your hands. All you can control is your next step."
Yash stared at him, lost in thought. Krishna's words sounded like they were meant to be a key that would unlock something inside him, but Yash couldn't find that key. He didn't know how to move forward, not with the weight of everything that had happened, not with this constant nagging feeling that he was broken beyond repair. How could he let go of what had already been done?
The silence between them grew heavier. Yash didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to ask the next question. His mind felt like a battlefield, one where his doubts were winning. What Krishna said sounded so… possible. But how could he let go of everything he felt he deserved? How could he believe that the past didn't define him, when it felt like it was all that was him?
Yash sat on the edge of the moss-covered stone, his legs dangling, a slight unease lingering in his chest. The forest around them was quiet, save for the whisper of the wind through the leaves. He kept his gaze on Krishna, who sat cross-legged on the ground with a relaxed air about him, his expression both serene and enigmatic.
Krishna was speaking now, his voice smooth as he explained the ways of the world—concepts that seemed so distant to Yash yet carried an undeniable weight.
"See those ants over there?" Krishna pointed to a small colony moving purposefully along the forest floor. "Do you notice how they work, each one scurrying without pause, focused only on their task?"
Yash followed Krishna's finger, watching the tiny creatures carry grains of food, their movements swift and coordinated, an unspoken rhythm driving them forward.
"They don't think about what they will gain or what they might lose," Krishna continued, his tone light yet thoughtful. "Their work is instinctive. Every moment, they serve the greater good, without attachment to the results. They know their dharma—what they were born to do."
Yash frowned, the familiar discomfort creeping up again. "You keep saying that word—'dharma.' What does it even mean?" His voice wavered slightly, betraying his frustration.
Krishna smiled softly, not in amusement, but with a knowing understanding. "Dharma is your duty, Yash. It is the path you must walk, your unique role in the grand scheme of things. Each person has their own dharma. And each creature in nature has its own. The ant's dharma is to carry the grain. The bird's dharma is to soar through the skies. You, too, have a duty—though it is not always clear, not always simple."
Yash clenched his fists, his mind still swirling. "But what if I don't want that duty?" he asked, his voice harder now. "What if I don't understand it? What if everything feels wrong? What if... I just want to escape it all?"
Krishna didn't immediately respond. Instead, he tilted his head and studied Yash with those infinite eyes, as though seeing beyond the surface of his words.
"Escape?" Krishna said, his voice light, but his gaze sharp. "You cannot escape yourself, Yash. You can run from the world, from your past, from your thoughts, but you will never outrun your own mind. It follows you everywhere, until you understand it."
Yash looked away, his throat tight. His thoughts were a tangle of guilt and confusion, and Krishna's words were only making it harder to hold them back. He felt a dark knot twist in his chest—the feeling that something was wrong with him, that he was failing, somehow falling short.
"You talk about duty, but what if you've failed your duty?" Yash asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if you've hurt people? What if you've betrayed them? What if you've hurt yourself?"
Krishna didn't flinch. His voice was steady, the calm of an ocean beneath a storm's surface. "You are not the mistakes you think you've made, Yash. You are not your past. You are not your guilt. Your actions, yes, they are part of your story. But they do not define you. Only the decisions you make right now—this very moment—shape who you are."
Yash felt a flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or doubt—but the weight in his chest didn't lift. He couldn't shake the sense that he was still chained to something he couldn't escape. "But how? How do I let go of all this?" His voice cracked on the last word, the frustration breaking through.
Krishna was silent for a moment. He looked at the ant again, watching it carry a heavy load, its movements precise and unaffected by the world around it.
"Dharma is not about perfection," Krishna said finally, his words deepening with meaning. "It's not about always doing the right thing or getting it right every time. It's about acting in accordance with your nature, your true essence. Just like that ant. The moment it forgets its duty, it stops being an ant. But it does not worry about the past. It simply carries on."
Yash swallowed hard, turning his eyes back to Krishna, desperate for more understanding. "And what if the past is too heavy? What if it's too much to carry?"
Krishna's smile softened, a hint of sadness in his gaze. "You carry it because you must, Yash. But you carry it with the understanding that it will pass. Every moment, every action, every thought, is fleeting. And when you understand that, you learn to live without attachment to the past. You understand that the weight you carry is temporary."
Yash's mind was a storm. "It doesn't feel temporary," he muttered. "It feels like it's always with me. Every time I try to move forward, it's there—pushing me down, dragging me back. I try to do what's right, but it's never enough. Nothing is ever enough."
Krishna's eyes softened even further. "That's where karma comes in, Yash."
"Wait, karma?" Yash repeated, brow furrowed. "You mean... like a punishment?"
Krishna shook his head, his smile both gentle and wise. "Karma is not about punishment or reward. It is the law of cause and effect. Every action you take ripples out into the world. Every thought, every word, every deed. And in that ripple, you learn. You grow. If you are aware of your actions, if you are conscious of your choices, then karma becomes your teacher. It is not something that punishes you, but something that leads you to clarity, to self-realization."
Yash shifted uncomfortably. "But what if I've done something so bad that it can never be undone?"
Krishna looked at him with a tenderness that felt like a balm to Yash's wound. "There is no action so terrible that it cannot be undone, Yash. The soul is imperishable. It is not bound by the mistakes of the body. You are not defined by what you've done, but by how you choose to move forward, from this moment. How you learn. How you grow."
Yash's mind spun, the idea of redemption, of not being bound by the past, felt impossible. But as he looked at Krishna's calm face, a strange peace settled over him. Krishna was telling him something that sounded almost too simple to be true, and yet...
"And how do I do that? How do I move forward?" Yash asked, his voice smaller now, quieter.
Krishna leaned forward, his expression earnest. "You begin by performing your duties without attachment to the outcome. Your duty is not to the fruits of your actions, but to the actions themselves. Do what you must, but do not cling to the results. Be like the tree in the forest—standing tall, its leaves turning with the seasons, not attached to the blooms, not clinging to the past. Its beauty lies in the cycle of the seasons, not in the permanence of the flowers."
Yash nodded slowly, trying to absorb the wisdom in Krishna's words. "So... you're saying I should just do what I can, without worrying about how it turns out?"
"Exactly," Krishna said. "And when you let go of the outcome, when you stop trying to control everything, that is when peace begins to enter your life. Peace is not found in the control of things, but in the acceptance of them. Acceptance of the present moment, without fear or regret."
Yash sat in silence, the weight on his chest still there, but lighter now. Krishna's words had reached into something deep inside of him, but there was still so much to unravel. How did he let go of everything? How did he stop clinging to his guilt, his anger, his confusion?
The answers weren't clear yet, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of something—hope, perhaps. A possibility.
And that, Yash realized, was enough to take the first step.
The sun was low, casting long shadows over the fields, as the day prepared to melt into night. A soft, cool breeze blew through the trees, carrying with it the earthy scent of the land. Krishna and Yash sat side by side beneath a banyan tree. The world around them was quiet, save for the distant sounds of birds calling out as they flew back to their nests. But Yash's mind was anything but calm.
He felt as if a storm was brewing inside him, a storm of confusion, guilt, and self-doubt. The weight of his past hung heavily on his chest. How could he move forward when the things he'd done seemed to anchor him in the past? How could he even begin to forgive himself for the pain he'd caused?
Krishna, ever calm and present, seemed to notice the turmoil in Yash's heart. He leaned slightly forward, his voice soft but steady. "Yash, I can feel the weight you're carrying. You're burdened by guilt, by mistakes. I can see that you're trying to make sense of it all. But tell me, what is it that you feel is impossible to let go of?"
Yash sat with his head bowed, staring at the grass beneath his feet. His voice came out low, almost like a confession. "It's the things I've done. People I've hurt. Mistakes I can't take back. Every choice I made, I feel like I've been trapped by it. I can't move forward... I don't know how."
Krishna was quiet for a moment. He knew this wasn't just about Yash's actions; it was about his understanding of them. "Do you believe that your past mistakes define you?" Krishna asked, his voice gentle but probing.
Yash looked up, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "It feels like it. Every time I try to move forward, the past pulls me back. It's like... like I'm carrying a weight I can't shake off."
Krishna nodded slowly, as if considering the question carefully. "The past is a part of you, Yash, but it doesn't define you. You are not your mistakes. Just as the earth is not defined by the dust that covers it, your essence is not defined by the wrongs you've done. What defines you is what you choose to become now—how you act in this very moment."
Yash's brow furrowed, confusion still evident on his face. "But if I've already hurt people, if I've already caused pain, how can I just forget it? How can I move on when the damage is already done?"
Krishna's expression softened. "You don't forget, Yash. You learn. The past is not something you can change, but it can be a teacher. The mistakes you've made, the suffering you've caused, they're not a prison. They are lessons, if you choose to see them that way."
Yash still didn't fully understand. "Lessons? How can pain and guilt be lessons? How is it possible to see my actions as anything other than mistakes?"
Krishna smiled slightly, his eyes glowing with a quiet wisdom. "Think for a moment, Yash. Think of a farmer in the field of a man was working diligently to plow the earth."
Yash imagined a farmer moving with steady hands. The labor seemed tough, and the air was thick with the weight of the work, yet there was something peaceful about the farmer's rhythm.
Krishna continued, "The farmer works hard, doesn't he? He doesn't stop when the soil is hard, or when the sun beats down on him. And when the crops grow, he enjoys the fruits of his labor. But he doesn't always control the outcome. Sometimes, despite his hard work, the crops fail. Sometimes, despite his care, the harvest is poor. But does he give up? Does he let that failure define him?"
Yash shook his head. "No. He keeps going, even when things don't work out."
"Exactly," Krishna said, his voice steady. "The farmer doesn't tie himself to the outcome. He knows his duty is to plant the seed, to work the field, to do his best. And then he leaves the rest to nature, to time, to the unseen forces. What happens after that is beyond his control. But he continues with his work, without attachment to whether the crop will be plentiful or poor."
Yash nodded slowly, the analogy starting to make sense. "So, what you're saying is that... I should focus on the action itself, not on the result?"
"Yes," Krishna affirmed. "Karma works the same way. It's not about the outcome; it's about the intention behind the action. When you act with sincerity, with love, and without attachment to the result, you are free. Free from guilt, free from the need for recognition, free from fear. You simply do your duty, and in that, you find peace."
Yash's mind was still grappling with this idea. He wanted to believe it, but it seemed too simple. "But what about the mistakes I've made? The pain I've caused?"
Krishna's gaze softened further. "Karma isn't about punishment or reward. It's simply cause and effect. Your past actions have consequences, yes, but those consequences are not meant to punish you. They are meant to guide you, to help you learn. And when you understand the consequences of your actions, you begin to make better choices. In that way, you purify your heart."
Yash still felt the weight of his guilt. "But how do I purify my heart? How do I forgive myself for the things I've done?"
Krishna leaned back against the tree, his eyes never leaving Yash's face. "Forgiveness is not about forgetting, Yash. It is about understanding. You must understand that your past actions, as painful as they may have been, were part of a greater journey. You can't change the past, but you can change how you respond to it. When you accept your mistakes, when you learn from them, you free yourself from the chains of guilt."
Yash thought about this, his mind swirling with questions. "So... if I learn from my past, I can let go of the guilt? I can move on?"
Krishna's smile deepened. "Yes. Guilt is only a trap when you let it control you. But when you learn from it, when you choose to act differently, then guilt loses its power over you. You will be free."
Yash sat in silence for a while, the weight of Krishna's words sinking in. He wasn't sure if he could let go of everything just yet, but there was a sense of peace starting to settle in his heart. It was as if Krishna had opened a door to something he had never considered: that he could change, that he could act with sincerity and without fear, and in doing so, he would find a way to heal.
Krishna spoke again, his voice steady and firm. "Karma is not a punishment, Yash. It is a chance to learn, to purify, and to grow. Each action you take, no matter how small, has an impact on the world around you. But you must act without attachment. The moment you are attached to the result, you are bound by it. You are free when you release that attachment, when you simply do what is right because it is right, not because of what you will get in return."
Yash nodded slowly, still processing the depth of Krishna's teachings. "I think I understand. It's not about the outcome... it's about how I act, and doing what's right, without expecting anything in return."
Krishna's eyes twinkled with a hint of approval. "Yes, Yash. When you act without attachment, when you focus only on your duty and your heart, then you will know peace. And when you know peace, you will know freedom."
Yash felt something stir within him. For the first time in a long while, the storm inside him seemed to calm, just a little. He wasn't free from his guilt yet, but Krishna's words had opened his mind to something new: the possibility of healing, of starting fresh, of learning from the past and moving forward with intention.
The wind rustled the leaves above them, and the night air grew cooler. Yash let out a long breath, feeling the weight on his chest lighten, even if just for a moment.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a fading glow in the sky. The forest around them seemed to soften as the evening settled in. Krishna and Yash sat quietly for a while, watching the last rays of light slip away, the world turning a muted shade of blue.
Yash's mind was still spinning, like he couldn't quite catch up with everything Krishna was saying. The past kept coming back to him—those mistakes, the guilt that weighed so heavily on him. No matter how much he tried to listen to Krishna, to understand, it all felt like a tangled mess inside him. Still, Krishna had been patient, speaking as if Yash could hear things he wasn't ready to hear yet.
Krishna broke the silence, his voice soft, but clear. "Look at that calf over there," he said, pointing to a young cow grazing lazily by the edge of the field.
Yash glanced over, following Krishna's gaze. "Yeah, I see it."
"You see how it's just... living?" Krishna asked, his eyes studying the calf, then turning back to Yash. "It's not worried about anything. Not about the future, not about what it's going to become. It's just doing what it's meant to do—eating, drinking, growing."
Yash shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, but... we're not calves. We have to think about what happens next, don't we? We can't just live without thinking about the consequences of our actions."
Krishna chuckled softly. "Of course, we're not calves. But think about this: the calf has no idea what tomorrow will bring, but it knows that whatever comes, it will handle it. It doesn't try to control the future or regret the past. It simply does what it knows how to do, without fear."
Yash let the words settle in. He didn't know why, but something about the idea of the calf, living without worrying about tomorrow, stuck with him. Still, he felt the weight of his own thoughts pull him back. "But I can't be like that, Krishna. I can't just forget everything that's happened. I've made mistakes. Big ones. And they follow me, no matter how hard I try."
Krishna looked at him with a steady gaze, as though he knew exactly what Yash was feeling. "Forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting, Yash. It means accepting that what's done is done. The past doesn't need to weigh you down. Think of it like a tree—you can't stop the wind from blowing, but you can choose whether to let the branches snap or to let them bend. The past can shape you, but it doesn't have to define you."
Yash felt a sting at the mention of "defining." He wasn't ready to just let go of his past like that. His mistakes felt like they were carved into him, like scars he couldn't ignore. "I don't know how to just... let go. Every time I try, I feel guilty. How do I just accept that everything happened?"
Krishna's voice softened, like he was speaking from a deeper place now. "It's not about ignoring the guilt, Yash. It's about recognizing it for what it is. Guilt is a teacher, not a punishment. It's telling you that you care, that you want to do better. But if you cling to it, you'll only keep yourself stuck. The key is to learn from it, to let it guide you, not bury you. You can't change the past, but you can choose how you act now. You can choose the future, one moment at a time."
Yash nodded slowly, feeling that familiar tension twist inside him. The idea sounded simple enough, but in practice, it was harder than anything he'd ever tried. "I don't know if I'm strong enough to let go."
"Strength isn't about holding on tighter, Yash," Krishna said gently. "It's about being able to let go. The strength to move forward, despite what's behind you. You think the calf worries about the storm that might come tomorrow? No, it trusts that it will be okay when the time comes. That's the lesson. Trusting in the process of life."
Yash shook his head, unable to fully accept Krishna's words yet. "It's not that simple, Krishna. The mistakes I've made... the pain I've caused... how do I move on from that?"
Krishna paused for a moment, watching the calf with a soft smile on his face. "You don't move on by forgetting. You move on by learning, by seeing the past as a part of you, but not the whole of you. Think about the seasons. A tree loses its leaves in the fall, but it doesn't mourn them. It lets them go, and when spring comes, it grows new leaves. The past is like those fallen leaves—part of the cycle, but not the end of the story."
Yash sat there, feeling the quiet weight of Krishna's words. He wasn't ready to fully believe them, but a small part of him felt the truth in them. He felt a bit lighter, but still tethered to the past. "I wish I could see it that way."
Krishna's eyes softened, like he could see right through Yash. "It takes time, Yash. But you can start by simply accepting that the past is done, and you don't have to carry it with you into the future. Every moment you hold onto that past, you're carrying it like a burden. But when you're ready, you can set it down."
Yash exhaled slowly, the words sinking in deeper now. "It's hard, Krishna. I don't know if I'm ready to let go of everything."
"You don't have to let go all at once," Krishna said with a kind smile. "Just take it one step at a time. Acknowledge your mistakes, learn from them, but don't let them control you. In the same way, the calf doesn't worry about the wind—it simply keeps going, without fear."
Yash paused, feeling the weight of Krishna's words wrap around him like a blanket. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to carry the past with him forever. Maybe he could start to see it as part of the journey. He wasn't there yet, but he could start to imagine it.
"Okay," Yash said quietly, more to himself than to Krishna. "I'll try. But I'm not sure how."
Krishna smiled, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "That's all any of us can do. The moment you stop fighting, the moment you stop resisting the flow, you will start to see the way forward. And the past? It won't haunt you the same way anymore. It will just be... part of the story."
Yash looked at the ground, feeling a mix of relief and uncertainty. He wasn't ready to fully embrace everything Krishna had said, but there was a small crack in his armor now. Maybe, just maybe, it was a start.
As the evening deepened into night, Yash sat silently, the weight in his chest lighter than before. He didn't have the answers, and he didn't know what the future held. But for the first time, he felt like he might be able to take that next step.
Yash sat there, feeling the weight of the moment. The words Krishna had shared were still echoing in his mind, and his chest felt lighter, but his heart was still heavy with so many questions. The afternoon had slipped away without him even realizing, and now the world around them was quieter, almost too still.
Krishna had always had this way of making time feel irrelevant, like nothing mattered except the present moment. It was as if he held the answers to everything, but only shared them when he felt it was right. Yash had learned so much, and yet there was so much more to understand.
Krishna broke the silence.
*"Ah, it's time for you to go now, Yash. Your time here is up for today."*
Yash blinked. He wasn't ready. Not yet. The feeling inside him, the pull toward Krishna, felt so strong, like he could ask a thousand more questions and never get tired of hearing Krishna's answers. But Krishna was already getting to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he was preparing for something.
"No, wait… just a little longer," Yash murmured, unsure of what he was asking for. His words felt weak in the face of everything Krishna had said. But somehow, he needed to know more, to understand more.
Krishna smiled gently, a knowing look in his eyes. He didn't rush Yash; he just waited, as if letting the silence teach him more than any words could. After a long moment, he spoke again.
*"You've done well, Yash. But there's more you need to discover. More you must walk on your own. I can't walk your path for you. The answers will come, but only when you're ready to hear them."*
Yash's brow furrowed, the confusion creeping back in. The path. The answers. He had felt like he was just beginning to understand, but now, it felt like he was at the edge of something much bigger, something he couldn't quite see. The questions in his mind were growing louder.
"But… how do I know when I'm ready?" he asked, almost pleading, his voice cracking. "How do I know what to do?"
Krishna looked at him, calm as ever. His gaze felt infinite, like he could see right through Yash, and yet still accept him exactly as he was.
"It's not about knowing, Yash. It's about trusting. Trusting that life will unfold as it's meant to, that every step you take brings you closer to who you are meant to be. The answers are inside you, not outside. You've already taken the first step. Now you must keep walking."
Yash nodded slowly, unsure whether he understood fully or not. But something in Krishna's words felt true. There was a strange peace there, one that he couldn't quite place, but that he could feel deep inside.
As Krishna spoke again, Yash felt a strange sense of finality in the air, something that made him feel like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, about to leap into the unknown.
"Just one more question," Yash blurted out, his voice a little more desperate than he intended. "Who are you, Krishna? I... I don't understand. What are you?"
Krishna stood there, silent for a moment, looking at Yash with that same penetrating gaze. His smile softened, as though he were weighing the answer carefully. Yash's heart raced. The question had been there, haunting him for so long, and now, finally, he'd asked it.
Krishna didn't answer right away, but when he did, his voice was deep, as if carrying the weight of centuries.
"I am time, Yash. The great destroyer of the world. The force that moves everything forward. The one who takes and gives, who shapes and reshapes the world again and again. I am the beginning, and I am the end."
Yash's chest tightened. He didn't understand. Time? How could Krishna be time itself? The concept felt too big for him to even begin grasping. He opened his mouth to ask more, to get clarification, but as soon as he did, the world around him seemed to shift. It was like a pull, a deep force pulling at the fabric of everything he knew.
The trees around him began to blur, their outlines smudging, fading into nothingness. The soft rustling of the leaves turned to an eerie silence, and the bright afternoon light dulled as if a veil had been drawn over the sky. Yash stood, frozen in place, his breath caught in his throat.
"Krishna? What's happening?" His voice cracked, but there was no answer.
The space around him seemed to unravel, like he was being pulled into a different world. The once familiar landscape of mango trees, the distant hills, the sunlight—all of it was dissolving into shadow. The very air felt thick, like it was pressing against him. His heart raced. He could feel himself fading, as though he was being ripped away from the moment he'd been living in.
And then, Krishna's voice, as calm as ever, broke through the stillness.
*"Until we meet again, Yash. Remember: You are the master of your actions. You are the creator of your path. Keep walking. The journey never ends."*
Yash wanted to shout, to stop whatever was happening, but the words stuck in his throat. The world around him went black. The air was still. It was as if he'd been pulled into the very fabric of time itself, and all that remained was the suffocating silence.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, there was a sudden shift. The blackness faded. Yash gasped, blinking his eyes open.
He was back beneath the mango trees. The ground beneath him was solid, familiar. The air was warm, the scent of the earth and the leaves all around him. The distant hills stretched out as they always had, and the gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the branches above. Nothing had changed.
Except that everything had.
Yash stood there, disoriented, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His mind was spinning, but at the same time, a strange sense of clarity had settled over him. The peace that Krishna had spoken of—it was there, deep inside him, like a seed planted in the core of his being. It wasn't complete yet, but it was growing.
He opened his mouth to speak, to say something to Krishna, but the words never came. The silence around him stretched long. He looked around, but Krishna was gone. It was as if he had never been there at all.
The only thing that lingered was Krishna's final words.
"Remember, Yash... the journey never ends."
Yash stood there for a long time, staring at the horizon, feeling the weight of those words in his chest.
And though the world had returned to normal, he knew, somehow, that he was no longer the same.
Yash kept walking, his mind still spinning from everything Krishna had said. He was headed to his home, his feet moved on their own, like they had a mind of their own. The trees around him whispered in the wind, their leaves rustling as if they, too, were part of some unspoken conversation. Yash couldn't bring himself to look back, though he felt a strange pull, as if something within him wanted to turn around.
The quiet of the forest around him was unsettling, but in a way that was also calming. He didn't understand why, but it felt like something had changed. It was as though a weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying had been lifted from his chest.
And yet, at the same time, he still felt lost. His heart still beat with uncertainty, a thousand questions bubbling under the surface.
Back to the unknown place, where Krishna had been standing just moments ago, the air shifted. There was a presence, subtle at first, and then... unmistakable. The same figure, but not the same.
Krishna's form had changed. No longer a playful boy, no longer a mischievous companion, he now stood as something else—something older, wiser. The youthful charm was still there in his eyes, but it was tempered now by a quiet strength. His skin, dark as ever, seemed to absorb the light, and his body was no longer the slender form of a boy, but the powerful, grounded shape of a young adult. His flute still hung by his side, the peacock feather still nestled in his hair, but there was something else now—a presence that made the entire world feel like it had just shifted.
He chuckled softly, as though the whole universe was an inside joke only he understood.
"Haha... it seems your story has truly begun, Arav Srivastava," Krishna said, his voice warm and deep, like the first rays of dawn , no loner he called him by his new life name but the name from his old life , his previous life.
Krishna's eyes glinted with knowing. He wasn't looking at Yash anymore, not in the way he used to. This time, he looked past him, into something greater. A smile played on his lips, but it was far more than a playful expression. It was the smile of someone who had seen all things unfold, and knew exactly what would come next.
"Your journey is just beginning, Arav," Krishna said softly, as if to himself, though the words reached the edges of the world. "The path ahead is long, but you are not alone. You never were."
A deep sense of understanding settled in the air. Krishna's voice, low but powerful, rang with the weight of ancient truths. *"Whenever there is a decline in righteousness, and an increase in unrighteousness, I manifest myself on earth to protect the righteous, to annihilate the wicked, and to reestablish the principles of dharma."*
His words were not a proclamation, but a truth that resonated within the very fabric of reality. Krishna's presence was not just a guide; it was the pulse of the universe itself, a force that moved in and out of time, weaving all things together.
Krishna glanced at the horizon, where the light of the day was beginning to fade, and there was something ancient in the way his gaze softened. "Arav, you will walk the path of dharma in this world. And I... I will be the divine observer."
His voice grew quieter, yet it carried to every corner of existence. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't a vow. It was just the way things were, the way they had always been. Krishna, the eternal presence, would watch, guide, and remain. But he would not intervene.
"Let the journey unfold," Krishna murmured, almost to himself, his voice carrying with the breeze.
For a moment, the world seemed to exhale.
In the distance, Yash—previously called Arav—continued walking, though he could no longer feel the same weight on his shoulders. The uncertainty still lingered, but it was no longer suffocating. Something had shifted, deep within him. He didn't know what to make of it, but he knew, in the quietest corners of his soul, that his life had already begun its transformation.
The figure of Krishna was now more distant, yet somehow more present than ever before. His form shimmered with the fading light of the day, a reflection of everything that had come before and everything that was yet to come.
And then, just before the last light of the day faded, Krishna spoke once more, his voice a soft whisper that seemed to echo in the very air around him.
"Whenever there is a decline in righteousness, I shall return. Until then, let the journey unfold."