The old man's voice echoed once more, sharp and desperate.
"You were reckless!"
Raghav remained on one knee in the center of the carnival, chest heaving, blue light flickering erratically around him like a dying flame. The rides still stood silent, but the air thrummed with unfinished energy. The illusions had not fully faded — fragments of fire and smoke lingered at the edges of his vision, whispers of screams echoing faintly in the distance.
Mrityu had vanished, but his presence lingered — a cold weight pressing on Raghav's mind.
The old man appeared fully now, robes billowing as if caught in an unseen wind.
"You said you had read the book of all the Kaals and their abilities," he said urgently. "If you truly understood, you would know: once you linger in Mrityu's realm, he reads your mind. Your weaknesses. Your loves. Your passions. Everything. The longer you stay, the stronger he grows… and the more he knows you. Be grateful your deepest memories and names remain sealed. If he had—"
"Shut up," Raghav snarled, voice cracking with exhaustion and rage.
The old man fell silent.
Raghav rose unsteadily. His voice shook, raw and furious.
"Is my mother alive?"
"Raghav, I—"
"Is. My mother. Alive?" The words rose like a shout, echoing across the empty carnival paths.
The old man's reply came softer, inside Raghav's mind. "I cannot say that."
Raghav's eyes blazed. "She is."
He dropped immediately into meditation pose — legs crossed, spine straight, palms up on his knees. Eyes closed.
"Om…"
The first chant was quiet, trembling. Then again.
"Om…"
A faint blue glow sparked at his core. It spread outward in slow, hesitant ripples — covering metres, then tens of metres. Flowers pushed through cracked concrete beneath the rides. Grass lengthened in unnatural bursts. Dead insects twitched and took flight. A wild boar that had lain motionless snorted awake, shaking its head as if shaking off death itself.
From the distant ashram, the old man watched — hand trembling.
Every "Om" sent stronger ripples through the growing aura. The light bent upward, curving into a rising cylinder that pierced the carnival sky. Vines crept over Ferris wheels. Trees sprouted where ticket booths once stood. The carnival was transforming — no longer empty, but alive, wild, reclaiming itself.
The blue glow deepened to orange-gold as the illusion of dawn broke behind Raghav. The fish tattoo on his neck shimmered violently; a massive catfish rose from the ether, human-sized, floating before him with ancient eyes. Beside it, the tortoise tattoo ignited — Kurma emerged, vast shell gleaming, hovering in silent guardianship.
The wild boar stepped forward from the tall grass — followed by the mouse and squirrel, all restored from brink of death. Blue light poured from the boar, shaping into a towering hybrid: half-human, half-boar, four arms bearing mace, conch, lotus, and chakra. Varaha grew immense, roaring at the sky. From the carnival's edge, the colossal form seemed to cradle the rising sun between its horns.
The aura surged outward — uncontained now. It swept across the carnival like a living tide, rippling through rides, through shadows, through the very air.
Every being attuned to the divine felt the tremor: generals in hidden bunkers, mountain clan leaders, temple priests far away. The ripple reached the old man last. His breath caught, this seems different to him.
Raghav's senses stretched — pulled violently toward a southern coast, toward a grand temple in Kerala. Down through hidden basements, past barriers and golden doors…one....two.....threee...until the seventh.
Behind it — his mother, lying peacefully on a simple bed, eyes closed in serene sleep.
Raghav's eyes snapped open.
He rose in one fluid motion. Blue light flared around him like wings. Without a word, he launched skyward — a streak of azure cutting through clouds, crossing oceans and continents in minutes. Wind roared past him; cities blurred below like distant memories.
He landed softly on a crowded street in Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala. The afternoon sun beat down. People walked around him as though he were invisible — a ripple in reality they could not perceive. He strode forward, purpose absolute, straight toward the hidden basement entrance of the Sri Padmanabhaswamy Temple.
Police barriers crumpled under a gentle pulse of his presence— metal bending without breaking, officers stepping aside in dazed confusion, not harmed. Six golden doors parted at his touch, each one whispering ancient Sanskrit as it opened.
He reached the seventh door.
He stopped.
The surface was covered in intricate carvings — endless coils of serpents intertwined, red cloths draped like warnings across the stone. The air hummed with a low, constant sound. He leaned closer.
Hissing.
Thousands of voices — soft, insistent, alive — slithered from behind the sealed stone.
"You cannot open that door."
The old man's voice came from behind him — calm, weary, final.
Raghav turned slowly. "Why?"
He placed his palm against the door.
A flood of memories — not his — crashed into him like cold water: centuries of guardians who reached too far, seekers consumed by greed or desperation, swift and merciless consequences. Visions of light, shadow, and endless coils. He recoiled, staggering back, hand pressed to his chest as if to steady his racing heart.
"What… was that?" he breathed.
The old man stepped forward, robes brushing the stone floor.
"This is the seventh door of Sri Padmanabhaswamy Temple. Behind it lies the key to everything, everywhere, all at once. Whatever you desire, whatever you need, whatever you crave most deeply — it is there. But no one not destined to open it has ever survived the attempt."
Raghav stared at the door, the hissing growing louder in his ears.
"But my mother—"
"There is no one inside, Raghav." The old man's voice softened with sorrow. "When your aura expanded and touched this place, the door sensed your power. It showed you what your heart most desperately wanted to see. Believe me — you do not want to know what truly waits beyond."
He paused.
"The door is sealed by Nagpash — the strongest binding force in nature. If one not fated tries to force it… the consequences are immediate. Listen."
Raghav did. The hissing swelled — a living chorus of serpents coiled in darkness, patient and eternal.
Raghav's voice cracked. "So my mother… where is she?"
The old man looked at him with ancient compassion.
"She is not dead, Raghav. But she is not alive in the way you understand."
Raghav's fists clenched. "What does that mean?"
"Mrityu can read past, present, and soul of almost anyone. But you are Maharakshak — your mind is shielded. He sensed only a trace of your mother's essence… but you did not feel it clearly because it is not yet time."
Raghav shook his head violently. "I don't care. If she's alive—"
"No." The old man raised a hand. "Come back. I will show you."
Behind them, a simple lift materialized — glowing faintly, doors open.
Raghav hesitated, eyes still locked on the seventh door.
"Wait," he said. "If that door holds such power… why haven't the Kaals opened it?"
The old man's expression grew calmer.
"They are not fools. They will not even approach this temple."
"Why?"
A long silence.
"Because their true end begins the moment that door opens."
Raghav stared at the sealed stone — at the serpents carved in endless loops, at the red cloths swaying slightly as if breathing.
He understood.
The door would open when he arrived.
The hissing continued — patient, waiting.
The lift doors remained open behind him.
Raghav took one last look at the seventh door.
Then he turned.
And stepped inside.
The lift doors closed with a soft chime. Raghav and the old man stood side by side, the small space suddenly feeling too quiet. Neither spoke. The awkward silence stretched until both opened their mouths at the exact same moment.
"I was asking—"
They both stopped.
"You go first," they said together again.
Raghav raised a hand with a half-smile. "I'll go."
He turned to the old man. "How do you know my mother?"
The old man's gaze softened, memories flickering behind his ancient eyes.
"When your father chose to live a life outside the ashram, he met your mother at his workplace. Before you — and all Maharakshaks before you — were raised entirely within these walls. At a certain age, they would leave to walk their own path in the world. Your mother worked closely with your father. Over time, respect turned to love. He shared the truth of this place with her — of us."
Raghav's brow furrowed. "And you allowed it?"
The old man gave a small, knowing nod. "A husband and wife may share anything between them. Secrets of the heart are not forbidden."
Raghav smirked faintly. "Can I tell my girlfriends?"
"You don't have one."
"I'll have one in a month."
"She is eighteen."
Raghav chuckled. "I'll wait. Or I'll just go full Saif and Kareena."
"Sure you will," the old man replied dryly, sarcasm gentle.
Raghav leaned against the wall. "So… what happened after?"
"They married. They had a child."
Raghav's head snapped up. "Kids? Plural?"
The old man corrected himself quietly. "Child."
They named him after their greatest ancestor."
"Raghav."
"That is not your real name."
Raghav blinked. "Wait… what?"
"Your family lineage name is Bhagirathi."
"Bhagirathi?" Raghav repeated, tasting the word.
"That was what your father suggested. But you chose Raghav."
Raghav gave a short laugh. "Thank you. I studied in Britain. My friends are worse than Rajasthani uncles at butchering names. Raghav became 'Rag-hav-a', Mahen became 'Me-han' or 'Mah-aen'. Kolkata became 'Kol-kata', Visakhapatnam became 'Vi-jak'. No chance they'd survive Bhagirathi."
The old man smiled faintly.
Silence returned.
Then Raghav spoke again — at the same moment the old man did.
"You were asking something earlier?"
The old man nodded. "It is nothing important. I only noticed… you unlocked the Varaha avatar as well."
Raghav glanced down at his bracelets. A new carving had appeared — the boar, fierce and proud.
"When did it—"
"When you focused entirely on your goal," the old man explained. "The familiars are not bound only by belief. They are bound by emotion, by will. Your desperate need to find your mother… it reached that level of clarity. Now you hold immense power. And if I am correct, the next will be Narasimha."
Raghav raised an eyebrow. "Anger management issues?"
"No. That will come with Parashurama. For Narasimha, you will need a true, solid motive — not fleeting anger, but something unbreakable. He is one of the strongest. He will not grant his power easily."
Raghav crossed his arms. "I didn't get mine easily."
"Perhaps. But the next will be harder."
The lift doors opened with a soft ding.
The old man led him down a quiet corridor to a vast chamber. A single ancient tree stood at its center — branches heavy with small clay pots tied like fruit.
"Many who know of this ashram and the Maharakshaks understand the cycle," the old man said. "When they pass, their soul enters rebirth — seven lives in total. At the end of each life, they return here. After seven, the soul merges with Paramatma. When Kali Yuga ends, all will have completed their cycles. New souls will be born for the next yuga."
He gestured to the tree.
"Some choose to live lives of complete purity — no impurity, no attachment — so they may cancel the cycle early. Their ashes are stored here, in Sat Yuga, waiting for the door to open."
Raghav stepped closer. A deep calm washed over him — familiar, comforting.
"Ever felt like you were coming home the moment you entered?" the old man asked.
Raghav nodded slowly. "Yes."
"That is because a part of your mother's soul rests here. We cannot see her… but she can see us."
A gentle breeze brushed Raghav's face — warm, almost tender.
"I can feel her," he whispered.
The old man's voice grew quieter. "I did not sense your father."
"He completed his seventh life," the old man replied. "He has already merged with Paramatma."
Raghav looked up. "He didn't stay with her?"
"He could not. Those who finish seven lives go directly onward. When Kali Yuga ends and Sat Yuga begins, I will release these ashes into the river."
Raghav studied the old man. "You plan to live that long?"
"I am blessed with Iccha-Mrityu. I will depart when I choose."
Raghav gave a low whistle. "That's… intense. Who are you, really? Before all this?"
The old man's gaze turned distant.
"My origin? Let us say… I can make the sky fall simply by my name."
Raghav waited.
The old man spoke softly.
"Bheeshma. Bheeshma Pitamah."
Raghav stared — stunned into silence.