KAKBHUSHUNDI - CHRONICLES OF TWO EPICS

"यत्र एकस्य रक्तं, परस्य रथानां पथि।

तत्र द्वयं वध्यते च, तत्र युगान्तर रच्यते॥"

"Where blood is shed on the path of chariots,

Two flames are forged—

And across the sweep of ages, their names are born anew."

Amid the Forgotten Canopy

Morning in Kishkindha was heavy with silence. Dew lay like blessings on banana leaves. The forest hummed with lives yet unborn. Yet at the heart of that hush, a man sat born not of peace but of pride.

Vāli, monarch of the vanaras—broad as mountain, fierce as tempest—gazed at the water's jade calm. His scars told of battles won, of heavens fought, of a crown claimed by might. Yet his eyes carried a sliver of regret — a wound no arrow could heal.

A hush deeper than the dawn pressed upon him.

From the tongue of the breeze emerged a crow's cry.

A figure appeared — tall yet whisper-soft, garbed in shadow and ancient dusk. The raven's shape breathed life, and before him stood Kakbhushundi, the eternal witness.

Vāli rose, equal parts anger and awe.

"Who dares tread here, between vine and blood? A crow with human voice — is this a trick or an omen?"

Kakbhushundi's smile held aeons.

"I have come not to deceive, but to reveal. I carry two stories—one of your past, and one yet to unfold."

Vāli's chest tightened.

"Speak your riddles, crow. You walk in my forest, but know not its laws."

The seer leaned forward, eyes bright as molten gold.

"In one tale, death came not from arrow but from destiny's design. Your brother's hand faltered, his arm filled with doubts — yet you fell. You bear no blame — yet the pain was your own."

Vāli's gaze sank inward, as if chasing a shadow only his soul remembered.

"I recall the day — the forest did not roar in triumph, but fell into a mournful hush, as if the trees themselves knew that it was not a victory earned, but a flaw revealed in the fabric of dharma." Kakbhushundi's voice softened but did not waver, "That death you lived—though born of brotherhood—it precedes another, across eons. A war of gods and sons, where a radiant hero of the sun meets his fate at the hands of his sworn kin."

Vāli's eyes snapped open.

"A future war?"

"Yes," the sage said, "And though you will not stand in that battlefield, your story will. That hero's fall will shadow your own. A son of divinity, killed not by enemy but by destiny's echo."

Vāli paced the riverbank, massive shoulders casting long shadows.

"Why show me this? To steal my peace twice?"

Kakbhushundi lifted a hand, calm as river stone.

"To bind your strength to compassion. Your fall teaches that even the mightiest may be felled by kinship's blade. That lesson will echo, guiding that hero's heart, reminding him that valor must bow to conscience."

"His name?" Vāli asked, voice tight.

The crow-smile flickered.

"He is called the golden warrior of light, born of radiance, destined to face his own brother's breath in steel."

Vāli's face hardened.

"And I? What am I in that telling?"

Kakbhushundi stepped closer, his gaze blazing.

"You are the first flame in the pyre. His fire will rise higher, but your spark was kindled before. His downfall will be twice your echo — first in pain, second in purpose."

Silence pressed. The forest leaned closer.

Vāli whispered, almost to himself:

"I am the warning flame."

"Yes," Kakbhushundi replied. "Without your story, his cannot be whole."

Vāli knelt before the stream, touching its glassy surface.

"Then let it be useful," he murmured. "Let my blood be the soil where his resolve grows."

A wind stirred, as if affirming the vow.

"Go now, great son of Indra's fire," Kakbhushundi said. "Live in the fullness of your day — and let your fall light the way for the dawn that follows."

The sage stepped back into the azure hush.

Vāli rose, crowned not by throne, but by this silent promise.

The light deepened in the forest, and two flames—one lived, one awaited—blazed across time.