"यस्य नाम्ना जननी भूः, यः धर्मस्य अधिपः भवेत्।
तस्य यशो न कालजं, नश्वरं वा, किंतु कालत्रयं व्याप्तम्॥"
"He by whom the Earth is called Mother, who holds Dharma as his scepter—
His glory is not of Time, nor subject to decay, but woven across the three ages."
The banks of the sacred Sindhu swelled softly beneath the twilight haze, washing its golden ripples over pebbles as if kissing the dust that bore empires. A great pavilion had been raised under a canopy of peepal trees where the banners of Hastinapur fluttered—not merely in pride, but in prophecy.
Bharata, son of Dushyanta and Shakuntala, clad in armor of sun-glint bronze, stood at the river's edge, gazing at his reflection. A crown yet sat uneasily on his head, not from lack of worth, but from the sheer weight of expectation. His Vijay Yatra had carved a map of submission into the continent, his feet kissed by princes, his word held like Vedic fire.
And yet, within his eyes shimmered a distant question.
"Is this enough?"
He whispered it not to the wind, but to the river that had cradled civilizations.
He knelt to cup the water, but paused.
A shadow had already broken the river's smooth face.
"Not all crowns are forged in conquest," came a voice behind him—mellow, ancient, bearing the silence of yugas.
Bharata turned, hand on sword—not in fear, but instinct.
The figure before him wore no royal color, no weapon, no sign of caste or sect. His black feathers shimmered like dusk; his eyes, deep wells of memory.
"I know that gaze," Bharata said slowly. "I've seen it in sages who speak in riddles and in dreamers who weep at fire altars. Who are you, wanderer, whose presence the river does not resist?"
The figure bowed, not in submission, but in reverence.
"I am Kakbhushundi," he said, voice like the wind stirring temple bells. "I have watched many empires rise. Yours, O Bharata, shall shape the very bones of Aryavarta."
Bharata studied him, the name etching itself across something deep in his mind. "I have heard whispers," he murmured. "Of a raven who outlives Time. They say even gods pause when you speak."
Kakbhushundi smiled faintly.
"Because I speak not to warn," he said, "but to awaken."
Bharata turned his gaze back to the water. "Then awaken me, seer. Tell me—will I become Chakravartin? Will the wheels of Dharma roll at my feet?"
Kakbhushundi's gaze was steady. "You already are, in this moment. The stars have bent for your birth. The earth has remembered your steps. You will unite the four corners not by fear, but by order. Your law shall be the script by which kings will measure themselves."
Bharata's chest swelled. "Then I shall be remembered."
The raven nodded. "Yes. So deeply that the very soil of this land shall carry your name."
A breeze passed between them, like the hush before a hymn.
"But what becomes of that memory?" Kakbhushundi asked softly.
Bharata blinked. "What do you mean?"
Kakbhushundi turned to the horizon where the sky kissed the dust. "I speak not only of what you will create, O King. I speak of what it will become."
He stepped forward, his feet not leaving a mark on the sand.
"From your blood will rise a dynasty fierce as Agni and calm as Soma. They will wield wisdom like spears. Yet…"
He looked directly into Bharata's eyes.
"There will come a war. Not of greed—but of dharma twisted. Your empire shall divide into lines drawn by kin. A brother's vow will burn kingdoms. A dice game will upturn fate. The sons of gods will become foes."
Bharata's lips parted.
Kakbhushundi continued. "Your name shall ring from every battlefield. But you will watch it all from Swarga, powerless as your house crumbles."
Bharata exhaled slowly, the wind catching a strand of his hair. "And this war—will it end the age?"
"It will begin the end," Kakbhushundi said. "For the mightiest bow shall fall, and with it, the illusion of invincibility."
He looked toward the sun now dipping into the water.
"A warrior named after justice will fall before his time. Another, born of light itself, will weep with his final breath, slain not by a blade but by destiny's silent betrayal."
Bharata said nothing for a moment. The sounds of his camp had faded—no drum, no cry, only silence and water.
"And yet," Kakbhushundi whispered, "from that ruin, Dharma will be reborn."
The king turned sharply. "And what of me? My glory? My empire?"
"You are the seed," Kakbhushundi said gently. "The tree must rise, bear fruit, fall, and decay—for the forest to thrive."
Bharata's jaw tightened. "Then I am to rule, knowing it all collapses?"
The raven shook his head. "You are to rule, knowing that nothing collapses. Only transforms."
The king let out a deep breath. "And will I remember all this when I return to my throne?"
"No," Kakbhushundi said. "But your soul will carry its echo. And when your son speaks, you will hear yourself in him. When he walks into Sabha, the gods will rise."
Bharata knelt, cupping the water in his hands. "Then let this river witness. I shall not rule for pride. I shall rule for the one who will inherit a world not yet ready for him."
He raised his palms and let the water spill like time through his fingers.
Kakbhushundi, watching, placed a feather at the edge of the bank.
"Then go, O King," he said. "For the wheels are already turning. In your footsteps echoes the sound of chariots yet unborn."
And with that, the raven was gone—like smoke into the wind.
But Bharata sat by the river till the stars whispered their arrival. And in the stillness, he smiled.
For the land beneath him was not just his kingdom.
It was his legacy.
It was his name.
It was Bharat.