The heavens stretched before him in boundless expanse—no end, no horizon, but shimmering cusps of golden light and unseen melodies. Kakbhushundi drifted upon the cosmic winds, each feather of his raven-form glinting with distant yugas. He sought nothing but listened—and tonight, the air itself trembled with verses older than creation.
A whisper touched his ear, neither voice nor breath, but resonance: "Now I shall speak to you, and through you to all who listen."
The sage folded into human shape, robes flowing like primordial mist. His eyes closed as the first words of the Gītā arrived—not heard, but known, like the shape of a name before it is spoken.
"क्लैब्यं मा स्म गमः पार्थ नैतत्त्वय्युपपन्नम्।
धर्म्याद्धि युद्धाच्छ्रेयोऽन्यत्क्षात्रियस्य न विद्यते॥"
"Do not yield to cowardice, Arjuna; here is no wisdom in retreat—
for to engage in righteous war is the Kshatriya's path."
An unseen presence manifested in the golden air—a presence neither comforting nor alarming—but ineffably ancient.
"He was torn—not by lack of courage, but by compassion. Yet through war's crucible, he reclaimed his own."
These were the words that stirred the winds in the firmament. Kakbhushundi stood motionless, his form a quiet silhouette against the infinite ether. The voice had no name, no face, no direction, and yet it embraced the entire sky, like the whisper of the creator to the created.
Kakbhushundi closed his eyes. Below him, countless worlds turned. Kingdoms rose and fell like the tides of a dream. In one such world, the field of Kurukshetra still echoed with the cries of purpose and ruin, of dharma wrapped in the cloth of destruction.
He spoke, his voice deep and low, braided with centuries. "The lesson echoes beyond a single battlefield. It echoes through the chambers of kings and the hearts of outcasts. In every yuga, man must stand before the mirror of desire, and ask—what is to be done?"
The silence that followed was not empty, but full. Full of memories. Full of time. Full of the stillness that comes before a sacred truth.
And then, like dew rising to meet the wind, the reply came.
"Desire," it murmured, "is the cloak of the world. Draped in gold, in blood, in beauty. It sings to man and pulls him from his path."
Kakbhushundi tilted his head to the side, as though listening to unseen strings in the distance. "But is not desire the first breath of love?" he asked softly. "Does not the lotus bloom only because it seeks the sun?"
"Aye," the voice returned, "and yet, what begins as a bloom often ends as a fire. When the sun becomes the hunger, and not the light."
The sage nodded slowly. "I have seen it," he said. "I have seen kings who burned their kingdoms for a glance. Warriors who spilled oceans of blood in the name of righteousness, forgetting that righteousness is not louder than silence—it is born of it."
In the golden mist, the verses returned—verses older than temples, yet as new as each soul's awakening.
"When a man casts off all desires of the mind, content within the Self by the Self, he is said to be of steady wisdom."
— Bhagavad Gita 2.55
That line stirred within him like a forgotten river finding its mouth. "Yet wisdom," he said quietly, "is earned. Through fire. Through sorrow. Through war."
Another ripple passed through the heavens. The voice had no sound now, but Kakbhushundi felt it inside his marrow.
He looked down again. A thousand worlds stretched below. In some, Arjuna had never lifted the bow. In others, Karna was never rejected. In one, the dice never fell. In another, the field remained empty, waiting.
"I have seen realms," he murmured, "where the war never came. Where peace was chosen. But those worlds grew stagnant, like lakes untouched by wind. No learning, no fall, no rise."
"Because the war," the voice finally returned, "was not destruction. It was unveiling."
The sage breathed deeply. "And what was unveiled?"
"The soul."
And with that one word, the air was changed. The stars pulsed brighter. Somewhere far away, the ancient sound of the conch echoed again.
Kakbhushundi closed his eyes and whispered the verses now flowing through him like a river through the sky.
"Your right is to perform your duty only, but never to its fruits. Let not the fruits of action be your motive, nor let your attachment be to inaction."
— Bhagavad Gita 2.47
These words had danced on Arjuna's lips, but they were meant for all of creation.
"It is in action without attachment," he said, "that liberation is found. And yet, how many are strong enough to act, knowing they may never be remembered?"
The presence stirred, not with sound, but with knowing. And in that moment, Kakbhushundi understood—he was not there to prevent destiny, but to witness it. To carry memory through time's vast corridor. To whisper truths in chambers, in forests, in children's hearts.
"To remember," he said aloud, "that war is not glory, nor peace cowardice. That dharma lies not in the blade, but in the choice to lift it or leave it sheathed."
A final gust passed through him, like the breath of Vishnu himself. The skies opened wider. Galaxies turned like prayer wheels.
The voice returned, now part of him: "Carry this story, crow of time. Speak it to kings not yet born. And remind those who wear crowns—that each crown is made from the bones of forgotten choices."
Kakbhushundi opened his eyes.
The Gita was not finished. It never would be. It was spoken again in every age, in every soul that stood trembling before its own dharma.
He stretched his wings and let the stars rise beneath him.
The cosmos bowed in silence. The war had ended. But the story had just begun.