[5200 years ago...]
Hastinapur was not merely a city; it was the crown jewel of the Earth. Its white marble spires pierced the clouds, and its streets flowed with the wealth of a hundred conquered kingdoms. It was the seat of the Kuru dynasty, a place of absolute power.
But the seeds of its greatest tragedy were sown not in the throne room, but in the mist-covered banks of the Ganga.
It began with a tremble.
The early morning fog clung to the river like a shroud. Maa Kunti stood knee-deep in the freezing waters, clutching a wicker basket against her chest. Inside lay a newborn who defied nature—his skin glowing with the radiance of the morning sun, clad in gold earrings (Kundal) and armor (Kavach) that were as much a part of him as his flesh.
"Forgive me, my son," Kunti whispered, her tears falling onto the baby's golden chest plate. "The world will not understand you. They will call you a sin. I must let you go."
She pushed the basket into the current. But just as the river began to take him, a rough voice shattered the silence.
"A mother abandoning her child is a sin. But abandoning a child of gold... that is a mystery."
Kunti spun around. A boatman stood there, his net half-cast, his eyes wide with shock. He looked from the weeping queen to the glowing basket drifting away.
There was a boatman standing. "I saw all, Maharani. That is no ordinary child. That armor... it is not made by human hands. That is the work of a God."
Maa Kunti told that boatman what actually happened including sage Durvasa giving her the Beej Mantra. "Please. If the Kingdom finds out, I am ruined. My family is ruined. I will give you gold, jewels."
The boatman's eyes narrowed. He looked at the basket, then back at Kunti. A strange hunger replaced his shock.
"I have no need for gold, Maharani. Gold can be stolen. Land can be conquered. My wife and I... we have prayed for a child for eight years. The Gods have been deaf to us. But you... you clearly know how to make them listen."
"The Mantra," the boatman whispered, his voice hoarse. "The words you used to call the Sun God down to earth. Teach me that, and my lips are sealed forever."
She looked at the vanishing basket, then at the desperate man. In that moment of weakness, the fate of the world shifted. "Fine. I will tell you. But please do not tell this Mantra to anyone."
And so, under the weeping willows of the Ganga, Kunti whispered the forbidden syllables of the Beej Mantra.
The secret did not stay in the boatman's hut. Secrets of power never do.
Six months later, in the bustling market of Hastinapur, two women huddled behind a vegetable stall.
"You are lying," one whispered, her eyes wide. "The boatman's wife? She is barren. Everyone knows this."
"Not anymore," the other replied, leaning in. "She gave birth yesterday. A boy. The child... he floats. I saw him hovering above his crib, laughing."
"Floats?"
"And he is strong. He broke the midwife's finger just by gripping it. The boatman's wife told one of my friend... she said there are words. Ancient words that can summon the Gods to bless a womb."
"Tell me," the first woman begged, grabbing her friend's hand. "My sister has no sons. Tell me the words."
It spread like wildfire through dry grass. From the markets to the barracks, from the servant quarters to the merchant guilds. The Beej Mantra was bartered for silence, traded for favors, and stolen in the dead of night.
Twenty Years Later.
Hastinapur had changed.
It was no longer just the city of humans. It was the city of the Devputras—the Sons of Gods. They walked the streets with the arrogance of kings. Men who could lift carts with one hand, women who could see miles into the distance, children who could run faster than cheetahs.
But in the shadows of a tavern, the resentment of the "normal" men was boiling over.
General Viram, a scarred veteran of the Kuru army, slammed his cup onto the table. "I served this kingdom for thirty years," he growled to the men gathered around him. "And today, I was discharged. Replaced."
"Replaced by whom?" a merchant asked nervously.
"By a boy," Viram spat. "A sixteen-year-old Devputra. He didn't even need a sword. He punched through a stone wall during training. The King called him a 'blessing.' I call him a monster."
"It's not just the army," the merchant whispered, looking over his shoulder. "My business... I cannot compete. There is a blacksmith in the lower district—a Son of Agni. He doesn't need a furnace. He heats the metal with his bare hands. He makes swords in half the time. My family is starving, Viram."
A dark silence fell over the table.
"They are not us," a young soldier spoke up from the corner. "They look like us, but they look down on us. How long before they decide they don't need a King? How long before they decide we are just... cattle?"
Viram stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of his iron sword. "They are powerful, yes. But they are arrogant. They sleep with their windows open. They walk alone, thinking they are untouchable."
He looked into the eyes of the men around him.
"Tonight is the New Moon. The darkness is total. If we strike all at once... if we strike while they dream of their godly fathers... we can take our city back."
The Devputra Sanhar (The Great Massacre)
That night, the streets of Hastinapur did not sleep. They screamed.
The massacre was swift and brutal. The "normals," driven by decades of inadequacy and fear, utilized the one thing the Devputras lacked: unity.
In the dead of night, fires were lit in a thousand homes. The semi-divine children, confident in their power, were caught unprepared. Poisoned wine, daggers in the dark, and overwhelming numbers crushed the divine bloodline.
The screams of the dying Devputras were so loud they pierced the veil of the heavens.
The violence was so great that Brahma Dev, the Creator, had to step in. He descended from the heavens to stop the slaughter. He realized that Earth was not ready for such powerful beings to live among regular men.
To save the remaining survivors, Brahma Dev created a whole new dimension called Devputralok and moved the last of the Devputras there. To prevent this from ever happening again, He destroyed every written record of the Beej Mantra and wiped the memory of the chant from the minds of everyone on Earth.
The fog in the people's minds cleared. They looked at the blood on their hands and wondered why they were fighting. They looked at the empty homes and forgot who had lived there.
Today, the world has forgotten. They believe the Devputras are myths, bedtime stories of a time that never was. Humanity sleeps, believing they are the only masters of this world.
But the bloodline of the gods is hard to sever completely. Sometimes, history finds a way to repeat itself.