There are nights when names die, and souls are reborn. In fire, in blood and in faith, Pavitra vanished and Gyanwati began.
~~~~~
"Did I say something wrong? I am sorry. But ignoring is not a solution. You have always shared your emotions with me…then what's stopping you now?" Madhav whispered, his voice low, his gaze steady, his face still close to hers.
She gently slipped her hand from his touch, leaving the umbrella in his hold. "See, friendship is different from a romantic relationship. In friendship, we speak without fear. But when we step into love, we should think before speaking. I think you didn't realize while sharing your feelings, that everything between us would change forever."
"No, that's not true," he replied quickly, shaking his head. "I think….It has always been like this."
Her brows knit. "What do you mean?"
"I think we always liked each other from the start," he said, his voice almost trembling with certainty. "We just didn't know what to call it."
His answer struck her like a bell in her chest. She looked at him—the rain poured around them, his breath brushing against her forehead, his eyes holding hers. Her heart thundered. Without another thought, she cupped his face, rose on her toes, and kissed him.
That day, their love began. They were happy together, as natural and effortless as before, only now bound by a deeper promise. Soon, their families came to know, and the two were engaged.
Two years passed. Together, they grew in strength and wisdom, mastering the gifts of the Aokmas.
Among them, Pavitra stood apart. Her knowledge soared far beyond her age. She possessed immense physical power, psychic sensitivity, and a rare gift for hymns and scriptures. Elders often said she carried the weight of an ancient and angel mind in the body of a young girl.
But then a drought came.
A deadly drought.
The earth cracked, rivers dried, and the people were starving . Cattle fell lifeless in the dust, Children suffered and even the strongest men and women collapsed from hunger.
The Aokmas, guardians of creation, knew it was their duty to act. For centuries, whenever calamities struck, they had turned to yajna—sacrificial fire rituals—to balance the karmic burden of the people, to soothe the wounded earth, and to call upon the god's mercy.
Yajnas demand the combined strength of 11 Aokma's, together chanting in unison. The 11 elders had performed every yajna they knew, exhausting the rites passed down through generations. Yet none brought relief. At last, they turned to the most powerful of all—the Yajna of Sacred Roots. The sacred roots from the oldest forest to be offered into the flames. As the roots burned, their potent oils released vapors into the air, a mist that rose skyward, stirring the clouds—an ancient practice that worked much like what mortals in another age would call cloud seeding.
For forty days, the Elders chanted, continuously. Forty nights, the fire blazed. Still, the heavens gave nothing. The land remained dry, the skies remained merciless.
Confusion spread among them and Fear grew.
Pavitra's heart ached to see that the people were suffering. She spent sleepless nights with ancient texts and scriptures, searching for solutions.
And one night, she found something.
In a scripture 3000 years old, she read of a chant so old, so hidden, that it had been erased from practice. A hymn said to summon the personal servants of the rain-god himself.
Pavitra could not rest.
That night, under a sky heavy with silence, she went alone to the yajna-kund (Yajna-pit) . The ashes of forty days still smoldered. She placed herself before the fire and began to chant.
"Hari—Hari—Hari—Hari"
The sound pierced the stillness.
High, unbroken, vibrating through earth and air.
The fire leapt in response. Smoke rose in columns, spiraling like arms toward the sky.
The vibration shook the bones of Aokmas who were sleeping. One by one, the Elders awoke. Families gathered, rushing toward the kund. Madhav too, his heart beating.
And there they saw her—Pavitra, alone, carrying the weight of 11 Aokmas, bearing the strength of the ritual all by herself, her body trembling but unbent.
Her skin covered with sweat, her lips cracked, her voice raw, yet she did not falter.
But something was still missing. She felt it in her bones. She wondered what it might be. But then she realised. The personal servants of rain god will not answer to hymns alone. They will answer to life itself.
Without hesitation, Pavitra cut her palm. Her blood fell into the flames.She offered her prāṇa—her very breath—into the chant, binding her life with the ritual.
The fire roared, turning a deep, blinding gold.
Gasps rose around her. The Elders had never seen such a thing.
And then—
The skies cracked.
The first drop of rain fell into the fire. Then another.
She smiled faintly as she looked above and the rain touched her skin. And then everything blurred. Her body gave way. She collapsed.
The heavens broke open.
The rain poured in torrents along with thunder, hissing against the sacred flames, soaking the parched earth. People fell to their knees in relief, crying, laughing, lifting their faces to the sky.
The Elders, humbled, could only watch. Pavitra had done what none of them could.
When she awoke after hours of rest, she was surrounded by faces glowing with awe. For the first time in 500 years, someone had shown this much of strength in this community.
Her paternal grandmother stepped forward, her eyes were wet with both pride and solemnity. For over 140 years, she had ruled her forest. Now, at last, she knew whom it belonged to.
The throne ceremony was held. The fire was lit anew, the tilak of Sindoor (vermilion) and sandalwood pressed upon Pavitra's forehead.
And in a voice that rang across the gathering, her grandmother declared:
"She holds knowledge beyond her years. She carries strength greater than any of her line. She has tamed fire, summoned rain, and offered her very life for creation. From this day, she is no longer merely Pavitra. From this day, I name her Gyanwati— means one who possesses all kind of knowledge…. She is the spirit of wisdom, the Queen of this forest."
The crowd roared. The name echoed against the drenched trees.
And thus Pavitra became Gyanwati.