शब्दोऽपि नेत्रत्वं लभते यदा समयं भवति।
गूढं कथासु दृष्टिः, यः शृणोति स एव पश्यति॥
"When the moment ripens, even sound becomes sight.
In hidden tales lies vision—he who listens, sees."
The corridors of the Hastinapur palace sighed under the weight of silence.
It was the hour of storytelling.
In the dim light of his private chamber, the young prince Dhritarashtra sat upon a rug of fine wool. He waited—not with impatience, but with a regal stillness, a habit born of not seeing. Around him, the marble walls held their breath, and even the lamps flickered quieter.
The storyteller was late.
His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the carved sandalwood cane he carried—a rhythm that counted not time, but thought. The tales he heard nightly were the pulse of his realm, the windows through which he imagined his place in this vast world of kings, warriors, and dharma.
The softest wind stirred the edge of the chamber curtain.
And then—no footfall, no sound, but a presence.
"I hear you," the prince said.
From the far side of the chamber, a voice—aged like Vedic flame and cool as sacred ash—replied, "Indeed, O Prince, you hear far more than most ever shall."
The air shifted. Dhritarashtra turned his face slightly. "You are not my usual storyteller."
"Perhaps not," the stranger said, stepping closer. His form was cloaked in a feathered darkness, like a wandering sage who had walked from one yuga to another.
"But you carry the scent of dust and meaning," Dhritarashtra said slowly. "Speak then. Let your tale begin. As always, tell me a story where I am king."
The figure gave a quiet smile, unseen. He sat opposite the prince, folding himself like a crow alighting upon destiny.
"Very well," he said. "Let me tell you a story where the king is blind, yet the kingdom watches him."
Dhritarashtra tilted his head.
"There was once a prince," Kakbhushundi began, "born not lacking strength nor learning, but without sight. His father's court bathed him in attention, not out of love, but guilt. His tutors spoke often of kingship, though none could say whether the throne would ever allow a ruler who could not see."
The prince's hand gripped his staff, not with offense, but interest.
"This boy," Kakbhushundi continued, "grew not with the fear of blindness—but with the hunger for image. In his mind, he built cities. In his silence, he judged battles. His every thought was measured, sculpted like a statue of himself that only he could see."
"Did he become king?" Dhritarashtra asked, softly.
Kakbhushundi's voice deepened, almost reverent. "Yes—and no. The crown touched his head, yet never sat easy upon it. He ruled, yes. But the soul of the empire rested in the voice of another."
"In whose?" Dhritarashtra's brow tightened.
"A voice that spoke truth in riddles. A voice that did not belong to him."
The chamber grew heavy. The shadows from the lamps seemed to lean in.
"The king loved his children," Kakbhushundi said, "but from that love grew a vine—twisted, choked with possessiveness. He listened more to the fury in their hearts than to the warnings of wise men."
He paused.
"And so began a story not of justice, but of blindness. Not of the eyes—but of the will. A king who could have stopped the storm, chose instead to close every door and hope the wind would die."
Dhritarashtra inhaled deeply.
"You speak of punishment," he said.
"I speak of choice," Kakbhushundi replied. "There are kings whose power changes the world. And there are kings whose silence lets the world burn."
The prince leaned forward. "Tell me then—was he remembered?"
Kakbhushundi smiled.
"History sings of warriors, poets, mothers of revolution. Of the blind king, only silence remains. His name echoes not in the ballads. His statue stands in no temple. His story—if told—is carried by the wind and buried in the sand."
Dhritarashtra's jaw tensed.
"Then what is the worth of rule?" he asked.
Kakbhushundi rose, slowly, as though the room itself resisted his departure.
"The worth is not in being remembered," he said, "but in choosing rightly when memory has no room for you. In one moment—one breath—you may change the course of stars. Or you may yield... and vanish without trace."
Dhritarashtra clenched his hand around his staff. "And the voice... that ruled in his place?"
"The voice was dharma itself. Spoken through one who saw not with eyes, but with the courage to act."
The young prince sat in stillness.
Kakbhushundi moved toward the curtain, shadows cloaking his form.
"Wait," Dhritarashtra said. "Who are you?"
There was a moment—a silence so ancient it might have existed before the world.
Then, a voice, distant as a dream and near as a heartbeat:
"I am the voice between lifetimes. I am the echo of choices never made. I am Kakbhushundi."
The curtain stirred as though bowing. The air became empty.
And in the center of the chamber, the blind prince sat alone, eyes unseeing, yet opened inwards—toward a kingdom no one would rule, and a war none could halt.