✨ **Soul Verse**
Ek shabd hota.
Ek paan hote.
Ek ghoda hota.
Ek nave jeevan suru jhale.
(One word. One leaf. One horse. One awakening begins.)
The ledge, ancient and unyielding, lay silent like the secrets of a forgotten era. It was a witness to the eternal dance of kingdoms rising and falling beneath the weight of time. Below it, the lush jungle pulsed with life—a symphony of rustling leaves and hidden creatures that breathed the essence of existence. Above, the infinite sky hung heavy, as if waiting for something profound to unfold.
He stood solitary on the precipice—barefoot, his skin kissed by the cool morning dew, and wrapped in a deep indigo cloak that billowed gently in the breeze like a storm yet to come. In his hand, he cradled a folded leaf, its surface etched with the intricacies of the universe. He was neither prince nor priest, but a vow-bound guardian—an enigma whose name had slipped through the cracks of history, yet whose vow resided firmly rooted in the fabric of destiny.
At his feet rested a mango stone, intricately carved with a spiral design—not shaped by an artisan's blade, but engraved by the passage of memory and time. It radiated a soft luminescence, veiled by a cloak of mist. This was a प्राणचक्र (Prānchakra)—a soul spiral, created not for aesthetic allure but as a vessel of remembrance.
From the shadows, a striking black horse emerged, its muscles taut and ready, eyes like onyx mirrors holding ancient wisdom. Its mane fluttered in the wind, shimmering like the restless currents of the monsoon. There it lingered, steadfast and watchful, a silent guardian in its own right, bearing a distinctive white mark shaped like a flame upon its brow. It, too, remembered.
With reverence, the guardian knelt and placed the leaf delicately upon the mango stone, cupping it like a sacred offering. In a voice barely above a whisper, he invoked the timeless promise: "If silence is broken, I will return. If the spiral fades, I will redraw it. If the vow is forgotten, I will remember."
From the embrace of the trees stepped an elder, whose presence was both commanding and serene. His eyes held the hue of dusk, deep and contemplative, while his voice flowed like a riverbed—gentle yet powerful. "You are not meant to fight," he intoned softly, the wind carrying his words like seeds scattered in fertile soil. "You are meant to ripple."
The guardian, perplexed yet undeterred, looked up with intensity. "Then why give me a sword?" he pressed, the hilt of the blade glinting dully in the dim light.
"To protect the silence," the elder replied, a trace of mystery threading his words. "Not to break it."
As if on cue, the air shifted with a newfound energy, and the horse instinctively stepped forward, drawn to the weight of the moment. "He is yours," the elder continued, his voice a caress, "not merely to ride but to accompany you in your journey. To witness your path. To remember the stories you will weave, the stories which will ripple across generations."
The guardian reached out, his fingers brushing against the horse's mane, which felt soft and warm like a cherished memory—an unbroken promise of companionship and loyalty. "Will the vow survive?" he inquired, a note of desperation lacing his voice.
"Only if you do," the elder replied, his gaze unflinching, imbuing the words with an undeniable truth.
"And if I fall?" The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air.
"Then let your soul walk again," the elder answered, a glimmer of hope piercing the shadows.
That night, under a shroud of stars, the guardian inscribed a verse on the folded leaf, his movements deliberate and sacred. This was not a simple poem, but a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā)—a soul verse, crafted with intention and heart. He placed it carefully within a hollow stone, a vessel for the vows of old, and lowered his voice to whisper the final line with a fervour that felt timeless:
Ek pratidnya ghetali.
Ek atma halala.
Ek atma halala.
Ek punarjanma jhala.
(One vow was made. One soul stirred. One soul stirred. One rebirth began.)
Yet, the promise he crafted was never fully received. Betrayed, he found himself unmoored—not by enemies on the battlefield, but by one who mimicked the spiral, who repurposed the sacred soul verse, who silenced the trail of remembrance.
The horse faded into the mist, a spectre of camaraderie lost, while the leaf was entombed in shadows and earth. Thus, the vow fractured, echoing through the corridors of time.
And so, the soul returned to the world, first as Veeraj, a spark of hope amid turmoil, then as Rudra, a force of nature dressed in fury and strength. Not to fight, but to ripple through the fabric of existence, allowing the essence of his vow to resonate through time and space.(One vow was made. One soul stirred. One soul stirred. One rebirth began.)
🕉️ The First Vow
Etched into the stone. Folded into the leaf. Whispered into the wind.
To protect silence,
not break it.
To protect dharma, not distort it.
To redraw the spiral, if it fades.
To remember the soul verse, if it's buried.
To return, if the vow is forgotten.
To walk again, if the soul is betrayed.
To ripple, not to conquer.
To witness, not to rule.
To choose again, if choice is taken.
To love again, if love is lost.
To remember. Always.
The Vow Before the Mist**
The mist enveloped the fort like a lingering memory, thick and enigmatic. Veeraj stood at the edge of the rampart, the wind tugging playfully at his robes. Below, the ancient jungle pulsed with life—vibrant green and full of secrets, as if it were listening to his every thought. Beneath his feet, the stone was marked by a faint spiral, not merely a product of erosion and time, but a प्राणचक्र (Prānchakra)—a soul spiral, a symbol of life's eternal cycle.