The mangroves were quiet. Too quiet.
Banesh sat cross-legged on the root of an ancient sundari tree, water lapping gently at his bare feet. The river wind stirred his hair, tugging faintly at the braided feathers and beads. His amber eyes, normally soft, reflected centuries of grief and endless storms.
Once, he had been mighty.
He had walked not just the Sundarbans but rivers and forests far beyond, a guardian whose name was whispered across villages. People built shrines in his honor, carved his image into riverbanks, sang songs of his protection. Storms obeyed him. Rivers rose or fell at his command. The tigers of the mangroves bowed before him.
He had been worshipped, revered, feared—but always loved.
But centuries had passed.
The prayers had stopped. Families moved, villages changed. The songs had faded. The shrines crumbled. His power had not waned, but his purpose had withered. Without devotion, without the belief of humans, a god is like a river blocked—still flowing, but stagnant, unseen.
Banesh's hand brushed the water. The ripples glowed faintly, carrying memories.
He remembered the wars of the forest—tigers, crocodiles, poachers who sought to destroy the balance. He remembered guiding lost fishermen, saving entire villages from storms, stopping floods that would have drowned thousands. He remembered the smiles of children, the prayers of mothers, the fear of those who defied him.
And yet, here he was, unseen. Forgotten.
A long sigh escaped him, mingling with the rustling leaves. The forest he loved so deeply had grown silent, lonely. The mangroves whispered in the wind, but it was not enough. Not enough to fill the emptiness of centuries.
He had tried to intervene before the floods, to protect, but even he had limits. The rains had come too fast, too furious. The mangroves themselves had no power to save all. And so he watched. Helpless, frustrated, and ashamed.
Banesh lowered his head, amber eyes reflecting the moonlight that struggled to shine through the heavy clouds. The water around him shimmered faintly with memories: the laughter of children, the shouts of fishermen, the prayers that once gave him purpose.
And then, amidst all the sorrow and regret, he felt it—
a spark, small, fragile… a child.
Amod.
Even from a distance, he could sense the boy's heartbeat, fragile, yet stubbornly alive. The boy had survived the impossible flood. A god could not interfere directly, but he could watch. He could guide silently. Protect from the shadows.
Banesh's lips curved into the faintest smile, tinged with sadness.
> "Perhaps… even after centuries of being forgotten, there is still a reason to care."
His amber eyes turned toward the horizon, where the mangroves stretched endlessly, and he whispered softly to himself:
> "Little one… I will watch over you. Even if the world forgets me, I will not forget you."
And the river bent slightly around his feet, the trees leaned closer, and the forest seemed to hum a quiet lullaby.
For Banesh, the last guardian of the Sundarbans, the centuries of solitude had not yet ended. But perhaps, for the first time in hundreds of years, hope had stirred.
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This chapter establishes Banesh as a tragic, ancient, powerful yet forgotten deity, setting up his emotional arc and his connection to Amod in the future.
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