Night in Ahmedabad was never truly silent. Even as the city slept, the Sabarmati whispered secrets to the restless wind. On its banks stood Abhijith, thirty years old, his reflection wavering in the dark water. He had always felt out of place—an ordinary man in an ordinary life, haunted by dreams of ancient wars and forgotten kings.
Abhijith had always believed that life was a game, and he was born to play it well. In Ahmedabad, he was known for his sharp tongue, his knack for jugaad, and his ability to talk his way out of anything from a parking ticket to a family wedding. He wasn't a hero, nor a villain—just a man who liked to win, preferably with a smile and a clever quip.
He didn't believe in fate. Fate was for people who didn't know how to hustle.
So when he went to bed one humid night, lulled by the distant sounds of garba music and the promise of another ordinary day, he never expected to wake up in another world. Certainly not in a palace that smelled of sandalwood and ancient power, with a body that felt both alien and impossibly strong.
He sat up, gasping, and stared at his hands—bigger, rougher, callused in ways his keyboard-soft fingers had never been. A polished bronze mirror revealed a face that was regal, hard-edged, and utterly unfamiliar. Not Abhijith's face. Not even close.
Then came the memories—like a monsoon flood, overwhelming and strange. He remembered battles, betrayals, the weight of a crown, and the thunder of armies. He remembered a name: Jarasandha. King of Magadha. The enemy of Krishna. Father-in-law of Kamsa. In every story Abhijith had ever heard, Jarasandha was the villain—unyielding, ruthless, feared by all.
But Abhijith was not a villain. He was complicated. He liked to win, but he liked to laugh, too. He cared for his own, but he'd never risk his neck for a stranger. He saw the world in shades of grey, not black and white.
Now, in this strange new life, he was supposed to play the part of a legendary tyrant. But Abhijith had never followed anyone's script—not in Ahmedabad, and certainly not in a world of kings and gods.
As he tried to make sense of it all, the air shimmered. A golden thread appeared before his eyes, weaving itself into a tapestry of light and sound. And then, as if the world itself paused, he found himself standing in a realm of swirling darkness and radiant gold.
A voice, ancient and echoing, filled the void:
"Do you know how the Veda Sutra came to be, O Stranger-King?"
A vision unfolded: the cosmic dawn, with Brahma, the creator, seated in meditation. In his hands, the four Vedas—Rig, Yajur, Sama, Atharva—shone with the light of all knowledge. It was Brahma's task to share this wisdom with the world, to guide mortals and gods alike. But even the creator was not immune to weariness. As Brahma drifted into a brief, restorative slumber, something dark and ambitious crept into the world.
From Brahma's very breath, a demon was born—Hayagriva, with the head of a horse and a heart consumed by greed for knowledge and power. Hayagriva believed that if he could possess the Vedas, he would rule the universe and keep humanity forever ignorant. As Brahma slept, the demon stole the Vedas and plunged into the abyssal depths of the cosmic ocean, hiding the sacred texts where no mortal or god could reach them.
The world faltered. Without the Vedas, dharma itself began to unravel. Chaos spread, and the gods despaired. But nothing escapes the gaze of Vishnu, the preserver of order. To restore balance, Vishnu took the form of Matsya, the divine fish, and descended into the ocean's depths. In a titanic battle, Matsya-Vishnu confronted Hayagriva, who had grown arrogant with his stolen power.
Yet Hayagriva's defeat was not simple. He had gained a boon: only another Hayagriva could destroy him. At the end of a cosmic cycle, when the world teetered on the edge of dissolution, Vishnu, through the will of the goddess, took on the form of Hayagriva himself, with the radiant head of a white horse. In this form, Vishnu vanquished the demon, reclaimed the Vedas, and returned them to Brahma, restoring knowledge and dharma to the world.
"Thus, the Veda Sutra was born—not merely as words, but as the living thread of destiny, woven from chaos and reclaimed by divine struggle. It is the system that binds fate, knowledge, and power. Few can see its pattern. Fewer still can change it. But you, O King, are now its Weaver."
Abhijith blinked as a translucent panel hovered before him:
VEDA SUTRA SYSTEM INITIALIZING…
Main Quest: Survive, Rule, and Rewrite Destiny.
Sutra Fragments: Earned through wit, courage, and cunning.
Special: The choices of a king echo through time.
Blessing of Hayagriva: You may glimpse hidden patterns of fate—if you are clever enough to see.
He grinned, the thrill of the impossible sparking in his chest. If he was going to be stuck in the Mahabharata, he'd be the cleverest, quirkiest, most unpredictable Jarasandha the world had ever seen.
He'd outwit the gods, outplay the heroes, and maybe—just maybe—find a way to win on his own terms.
And if destiny wanted a villain, well—Abhijith would show them a hero who played by his own rules, one who could weave the Veda Sutra into something new.
As the vision faded and the palace returned, the golden thread lingered in his mind, humming with Hayagriva's power. Abhijith—now Jarasandha—smiled at his reflection, eyes alight with mischief and purpose.
The game was on.