"यः पण्डितेन विवेक्य मन्त्रं नु सन्तोषं वहति चार्जितम्।
तस्य विना नामस्मिन् इतिहासे, पतति वहीं धूलि समानम्॥"
"He who carries counsel crowned in wisdom but offers no joy—
His name in annals is as dust upon the wind, forgotten unseen."
A Throne of Shadows
Chitrangada sat in the seat once graced by ancestors—his father, his grandfather, kings whose renown rippled across kingdoms. The polished throne-room shimmered in the late afternoon sun, light fracturing across carved reliefs of conquests, councils, and celebrations. Yet today, the chamber felt hollow.
He touched the sculpted armrest as though seeking warmth he could not find. The weight of his crown pressed upon him more heavily than the four banners outside could ever bear. It had been only days since his elder brother—the paragon of vow and restraint—had placed the crown upon him. Bhishma, who had renounced marriage and throne for his principles, had entrusted the empire to Chitrangada's hands.
Now, alone in this gilded hall, Chitrangada wondered: How shall history remember me?
He closed his eyes and saw the great crowds cheering, his rule. He saw alliances sealed, borders secured, festivals alive with devotion. Yet beneath those visions lurked a strange emptiness—like a window without glass, a tune without echo.
Just as the golden silence of the chamber had begun to feel like a cocoon, something shifted. The torches lining the black-marble pillars did not flicker—but the shadows behind them trembled, as if startled by a presence older than flame.
Chitrangada turned, instinct tightening his breath.
A figure had entered.
There had been no footsteps. No creak of the great sandalwood doors. No herald's call. Yet there he stood—neither entirely man, nor crow, nor memory. Draped in robes that shimmered like the folds of twilight, the being's presence made the very air heavy with recognition the soul felt before the mind.
Chitrangada rose slowly. He was a king now, crowned by none other than Bhishma himself—yet in that moment, he felt like a boy caught between generations, uncertain if he belonged to legend or lineage.
The stranger's eyes—ancient, unblinking—regarded him not as a ruler, but as a candle about to learn the weight of darkness.
The king managed to speak, though his voice was hushed with instinctive awe.
"Who enters the chamber where even kings do not speak without permission?"
The being did not answer immediately. He stepped further into the chamber, past the murals of empires, his gaze brushing lightly over stone and history alike.
"I do not need permission," he said at last, his voice like the memory of a forgotten raga. "I enter not for the king, but for the man beneath the crown. The one who still wonders whether history will remember him."
Chitrangada stiffened, his spine aligning with ancestral pride. "And if I do? Is it not a king's right to dream of legacy?"
The visitor inclined his head, a gesture of neither agreement nor mockery, but of timeless comprehension.
"Legacy is a river," he said, "but not every river reaches the ocean. Some are swallowed by deserts before their names are ever sung."
There was no menace in his tone, only truth carried by wind.
Chitrangada's brows furrowed. "Speak clearly, sage—or whoever you are. I have no patience for riddles tonight."
The figure paused before the great throne—the same seat his father had once ruled from, and before him, his grandfather. He looked at it with neither reverence nor envy.
"I have watched kings carve their names into the earth with sword and decree. But time is a sea that does not preserve every footprint, no matter how noble," the being said. "You, Chitrangada—emperor of Hastinapur—will not be remembered."
The words struck like thunder. The young king's breath caught in his chest. "Not remembered?"
The visitor looked at him fully now, eyes dark as eclipse.
"Not in ballads. Not in sacred retellings. You will rule, yes. With courage. With discipline. You will build, protect, mediate. But the songs of men will pass you over, for they do not sing of stability. They sing of storms."
Chitrangada stood, stunned into stillness. The dream he had nurtured since boyhood—to be remembered among the greats—seemed to wither, its petals turning to ash before his very eyes.
"Then what use is all this?" he whispered. "The throne, the sword, the council, the years? What becomes of a king whom memory forgets?"
The sage's face softened. There was neither pity nor sorrow—only the strange tenderness of a crow watching a fawn take its first trembling steps into understanding.
"You become the silence between legends," he replied. "The soil in which louder destinies grow. You become the invisible root that nourishes branches the world will praise, never knowing you gave them life."
The words were no comfort—but they were undeniable.
Chitrangada turned to the high windows, where the stars looked in like divine spectators.
"I only wished to be worthy of this chamber," he murmured. "Of Bhishma's oath. Of my father's gaze, wherever he now watches from. Is it not fair to long for remembrance?"
"It is human," said the crow-sage. "But Dharma is not concerned with memory. Dharma demands balance, not applause."
He walked slowly across the floor, his shadow dancing like a silent bird on the polished stone.
"Your rule will be just," he continued. "But there will be no tales sung around village fires. No painted scrolls carried across kingdoms. Your name will slip through the pages of time like a whisper, lost to the thunder of wars yet to come."
Chitrangada turned, defiance flickering in his voice.
"And you? Who are you to deliver such verdicts?"
The figure paused, then offered a name older than myth, a name whispered by crows and sages alike—though never with certainty.
"I am Kakbhushundi," he said simply. "A witness to all that has passed, and all that may yet be."
The name echoed, soft and immense. It rang through the walls, as if even the stone remembered.
The king did not speak.
Instead, he walked from the dais to the cold floor, and slowly—without command or ceremony—he knelt.
Not as a ruler in surrender, but as a man in awakening.
"Then let my reign be the breath between verses," he said, eyes closed. "Let others wear glory—I will wear grace. I will give my people peace, even if the world forgets who gave it."
Kakbhushundi looked at him, the flickering torches now casting shadows across both their faces. In that moment, he saw not just a king—but a soul choosing nobility without the need for song.
He turned to leave, his footsteps soundless as time.
At the threshold, he spoke one last time, barely above a whisper.
"You will not be remembered by history, Chitrangada. But I will remember."
Then he vanished into the night, like a tale never told.
And in the chamber that held the weight of generations, Chitrangada remained alone—yet no longer uncertain. His legacy would be silent.
But it would be sacred.