"वीर्येण युक्तः पित्रुरंशे जन्मा भविष्यति दशानुजः।
धैर्येण यशसा भीमः संततिस्त्वं हास्तिनापतिमा वशी।"
"Born of valor, scion of a famed father—destined to rival ten brothers.
By courage and glory, you shall be greater than the mightiest; kings will bow to your shadow."
The sprawling palace of Dwarka shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, a symphony of turquoise domes and marble corridors reflecting the play of waves outside. Within the inner courtyard, young Abhimanyu darted between pillars and guards with the reckless grace of youth. His laughter tinkled like temple bells, scattering petals at his feet.
He paused when a dark shape fluttered overhead—an ordinary crow, he thought, at first. It perched on the marble lip of a fountain and cocked its head curiously. In a heartbeat, its form blurred. The feathers lengthened, became the folds of a dark robe. The shape shifted again. The boy stepped back, eyes wide but trusting.
A man stood now—slender, ageless, eyes like molten onyx that held galaxies.
Abhimanyu threw his arms forward. "Don't scare me! Who are you?"
The man offered a soft smile. "It was never my wish to frighten. I am a singer of time's forgotten tales, a traveler between moments." His voice, when it came, was the quiet echo of forest streams meeting temple chambers.
A faint tremor passed through the boy. He recognized the warmth of wisdom. "I'm Abhimanyu," he said, puffing his young chest. "I play in the palace yards. Who are you—really?"
The stranger sat down on the fountain's edge. As he did, the air stilled. The breeze paused. Even the birds leaned nearer.
"I am Kakbhushundi—today, merely a friend of stories."
Abhimanyu studied the man's robes. "Stories?" His eyes glimmered. "Tell me of my father."
Kakbhushundi's gaze softened. "Arjuna… he is no mere mortal. His courage rang like thunder before blades ever met. He bested princes of distant lands while still in play—his aim unmatched, his heart boundless."
Abhimanyu's chest swelled with pride. "He won kings for a game—my amma told me!"
Kakbhushundi nodded. "And yet he also carried the weight of dharma—stood by his brothers, navigated war's storms, and bore loss like a stormbearer."
The boy gazed down. "But one day, I will be braver than him."
Kakbhushundi placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Bravery is as much tested by shadow as by light. You will walk paths he never could. You will meet walls that bend steel—and bend them."
Abhimanyu swallowed. "Will I—?" He faltered, the question too vast for his years.
The man's smile deepened, as though about to offer truth—when the surrounding air shimmered.
A presence—eternal, radiant—filled the courtyard. The fountain's water froze mid-splash. A circle of light stepped forward, and there stood Krishna of Dwarka, dark-limbed and luminous, crown adorned with peacock-feather plume, garlands of lotus and jasmine woven around his neck, eyes deep wells of kindness.
Abhimanyu bowed, awe-born. Krishna's lips curved in welcome. "My son," he said, voice like wind through temple chimes, "your mother searches for you beyond the eastern gates."
The boy hesitated, then turned to run—but Krishna touched his shoulder, gentle as moonlight. "Go to her. Learn now that love awaits your return as much as valor awaits your rising."
Abhimanyu darted off, leaving Kakbhushundi and Krishna alone.
Krishna watched the boy's retreating figure, then looked at the sage. "You have begun the weaving of his destiny. Do not interrupt now."
Kakbhushundi bowed. His eyes, though ancient, showed a touch of awe under Krishna's gaze.
Krishna stepped closer, sunken gardens shining behind him. "You and I meet again, timeless witness. You remind this world of its broken promises and its hidden names. I remind it of fate's gentle arc and dharma's gentle bend."
Kakbhushundi's voice was a whisper of leaves. "It is your song that endures—the story of justice and mercy woven in equal breath."
Krishna smiled, hand lifted. "Then do your work, crow-walker. Tend their hearts with truth. For only when conscience blooms do kingdoms stay green."
He paused, eyes reflecting the courtyard's light. "Abhimanyu will step into fire at dawn. Your presence now is the first stanza of his courage."
Kakbhushundi inclined his head. Light shifted in the palace halls as though acknowledging that vow.
Krishna murmured, "Guard time's children well."
Then, without fanfare, he turned and drifted through the peach trellises, leaving both sage and stone silent under Dwarka's tide-worn walls.
Kakbhushundi stood alone in the hush. The fountain water resumed, petals drifted. He closed his eyes.
In that stillness, he heard Children's laughter once more—and somewhere, eternity bent again.