The forest near Raigarh did not welcome strangers.
Especially not men who woke screaming, their hands clawing at their foreheads as if trying to tear out their own skull.
Ashwatthama rose like a beast from the earth.
Not from a bed.
Not from sleep.
From a crater of upturned soil, as though the land had spat him out.
His body was the same — broad, scarred, clad in tattered armor older than memory. His eyes, once full of his father's pride, now held only the ash of war. And on his forehead, the divine gem — placed there by Lord Krishna in wrath — burned like a dying star.
He fell to his knees.
Not in prayer.
In recognition.
It had happened again.
The dream — Kurukshetra. The screams. The blood-soaked grass. The Pandavas' sons, lying dead in their tents, their faces frozen in sleep. And his own hand, red to the wrist, holding the sword.
"I did not mean to," he had wept.
"I only wanted revenge."
But Krishna had not wept.
He had cursed.
"You will not die, Ashwatthama. You will live. You will suffer. You will carry the pain of this night until the end of time. And when the world forgets dharma, you will remember. That is your punishment. That is your duty."
And so, he had lived.
Century after century.
Age after age.
He had walked through plagues, invasions, golden kingdoms, and dark empires — always alone, always marked, always remembering.
And now…
Now, something had changed.
The gem on his forehead did not burn with pain.
It burned with purpose.
And in the silence of the forest, a voice — not in his ears, but in his bones — whispered:
"The Ark stirs."
He lifted his face to the sky.
No stars answered.
Only the wind, carrying a scent he had not smelled in millennia.
Salt.
And neem.
And beneath it — faint, like a half-remembered shloka — the sound of temple bells.
Not from Dwarka.
Not from Kurukshetra.
From Puri.
He did not eat.
He did not drink.
He walked.
Through villages that did not see him.
Through highways that blurred like dreams.
Through forests where sadhus mistook him for a ghost and fled.
He carried no weapon.
But the earth trembled where he stepped.
On the third night, he came upon a small shrine — half-buried in vines, forgotten. A stone idol of Dronacharya, his father, holding a bow.
Ashwatthama fell before it.
Not in pride.
In shame.
"I have lived, Father," he whispered, his voice cracked from centuries of silence. "But I have not lived well. I have not found peace. I have only carried the curse like a beggar carries a bowl."
The wind stirred the leaves.
And then — clear, soft, unmistakable — a voice, like his father's, spoke:
"You were never meant to find peace, my son. You were meant to remember what peace looks like — so that when the world loses it, you can show it again."
Ashwatthama wept.
Not tears of salt.
Tears of blood.
For the first time in 5,000 years, he wept.
And as the blood fell on the stone, the idol's eyes — worn smooth by time — glistened.
By dawn, he reached the coast.
The Bay of Bengal stretched before him, vast, eternal, indifferent.
And there, on a rock near the water, sat a crow.
Not ordinary.
Its feathers shone like oil on water — deep blue, not black.
Its eyes glowed faintly, like embers.
It spoke.
Not in caw.
In Sanskrit.
"Ashwatthama, son of Drona, hear me.
The sea has returned what was buried.
The tablet has been found.
The first word has been spoken.
The Chiranjeevi must gather.
Not for war.
For remembrance."
Ashwatthama did not flinch.
"I have gathered nothing," he said. "Only pain."
The crow tilted its head.
"Then why are you here? Why does the gem burn? Why did you walk through fire and flood to reach this shore?"
Silence.
Then, softly:
"Because I heard the bells."
"And for the first time…
I did not dream of death.
I dreamed of return."
The crow flapped its wings.
"Then walk east.
To Puri.
To the temple where the idol blinks.
To the place where the Ark sleeps beneath the earth.
You are not the first to awaken.
But you are the first to remember why."
It took flight.
And as it vanished into the sky, it left behind not feathers —
but a single neem leaf, glowing faintly.
Ashwatthama picked it up.
And for the first time in millennia…
He smiled.
Not in joy.
In duty.
In hope.
The journey had begun.
And the wound — the one that had never closed —
was no longer a curse.
It was a call.