KAKBHUSHUNDI - CHRONICLES OF TWO EPICS

"न दह्यते मृत्युमुखे, न शोष्यते शोणितं च।

यः सागरमुखः प्रेरयित्वा सुवर्णयति धारां॥"

"He who stands before Death's glimmering mouth,

Whose heart does not crack, whose blood does not fail—

Casts the sea's curve into the golden flow of fate."

By the Silent Expanse of Tamasā River

The river lay before him like a black mirror—a mirror unbroken, unmoving, unreadable. Thin mist curled across its surface, softening its edges until water and air merged into secrets.

A lone fisherman stood at the shore. His net, coiled at his feet, was more bone than rope, worn thin by water and time. He wore no crown, but in his eyes lived the patience of waiting centuries.

He cast the net once. Then twice. Each time, the river gave nothing.

At the third cast, the net snagged against invisible force. He pulled. Something heavy resisted. He wrenched, and it tore — but not from rope, but from silence itself.

A crow's cry split the dawn.

He looked up.

There, on the bank, stood a figure—tall, thin, the color of smoldering embers. His robe was the dusk of dreams, his face carved with lines older than his frame. One eye glimmered like a black pearl; the other held distant stars. It was Kakbhushundi.

The fisherman's eyes narrowed, suspicion mingling with curiosity. "You are not from any clan I know," he said slowly, his voice steady but guarded.

Kakbhushundi smiled faintly, an otherworldly calm radiating from him. "No," he replied softly, "I belong to no time, but to all of them."

He stepped forward, the air thick with silent power. The fisherman's heart thudded loudly in his chest, yet he did not turn away or flee.

Kakbhushundi's gaze grew deeper, almost piercing. "You fish the net in empty water. Why?" he asked, his voice both gentle and demanding.

The man frowned. His hands—calloused, formed of strength and bone—clutched the rough weave of his net. His gaze was not unkind, but wary, shaped by lifetimes of tides and silence.

"I fish because the river demands it," he said quietly, eyes still fixed on the swirling current.

Kakbhushundi stepped closer, his voice light as the wind yet heavy with echo. "And what if the river conceals its fish until destiny calls?"

The fisherman's brow tightened. He stared at the stranger, but his eyes drifted past him—to the trees across the river that stood unnaturally still, as if the forest itself held its breath.

"Destiny waits for gods," the fisherman said, shaking his head with the weariness of someone too small for divine notice.

"Perhaps," Kakbhushundi answered, his tone now gentler, like a river touching rock. "Or perhaps destiny waits for hearts like yours."

The fisherman looked up sharply, studying the stranger's face. A silence passed between them—long, heavy, the kind only a river could understand.

"And what would you know of my heart?" the fisherman asked at last, his voice edged with disbelief, but not defiance.

Kakbhushundi's gaze softened. "That it beats against silence. That it will one day break silence—not with crown or blade, but with a single surrender."

Lightning cracked across the pale horizon, white and fierce. But no thunder followed.

The fisherman flinched faintly. A seed of tension fell into the dawn like a stone into deep waters. He hesitated, his fingers brushing over the frayed edge of the net as though it were a sacred scroll. His voice was bare, stripped of all pretension.

"I have nothing to offer but fish and nets," he murmured, not lifting his gaze from the river.

Kakbhushundi stepped nearer, the weight of unseen yugas trailing behind him like a shadow made of stars.

"Fish feed the poor," he replied, voice low, steady as scripture. "Nets teach divine patience. You think it little—but the heavens will record it."

The fisherman's brow furrowed. The river wind shifted across his face. "You speak in riddles," he said, his voice quieter still, a whisper that belonged more to water than to man.

"Only because life is a riddle made to be lived," Kakbhushundi answered.

He paused. Reaching down, he lifted a strand of the torn net, letting its rough threads slip slowly through his fingers as though unraveling time.

"In another time—well after this moment," he began, his eyes turning distant, "there will rise a Jāta veṣṭita hero. Born of the sun's own blood, abandoned in riches he did not ask for, raised by mortals in a land not his own."

The fisherman blinked, mouth parting slightly. "You speak of prophecies I do not know," he said.

Kakbhushundi nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

"Yet they know you," he whispered. "By name unspoken and by act unsung, you will brush his feet, offer passage, and make him believe mortality holds no throne—not even his."

The fisherman's lips moved without sound, like a fish grasping for air. The world around him—sky, river, forest—had stilled.

"Why—I am nothing," he said, his voice breaking like driftwood in tide.

"Because you are everything that godhood fears," Kakbhushundi said. His tone now carried the depth of a hundred unseen wars. "Compassion without demand. Humility that does not bow to greatness."

He turned toward the riverbank, where the water's edge recoiled gently from his feet, as if the current recognized something older than itself.

"When that hero stands before you—terrified of truth, armor-flushed with destiny," Kakbhushundi said, "you will place your hand at his feet not in worship, but in friendship."

The fisherman closed his eyes.

"And I?" he asked softly. "What becomes of me, who carries no crown? Who speaks no mantra?"

Kakbhushundi's answer came slowly, like the first echo in a dark cave.

"You become the heart-note of his legend—the quiet chord that holds the thunder in its place."

Then he turned his eyes toward the water—not at its surface, but into it, as if reading the layers of time written in the undertow.

"And then, like dawn after night's eternity," he whispered, "you will vanish—become invisible to those who sing of gods. But I will remember."

The fisherman stood unmoving.

His breath caught. Not from fear. Not from disbelief. But from the ancient sorrow of being known.

He sank to his knees, as if the weight of prophecy had quietly descended upon his shoulders. The net slipped from his hands—forgotten, like the past that no longer mattered. His voice trembled with humble resolve as he whispered, "May I serve then—as small as I am," his eyes glimmering with quiet determination, the shadow of destiny settling around him like the first light before dawn.

Kakbhushundi regarded him with a gentle nod, a faint smile touching his lips. The man rose, transformed—not by magic, but by the awakening of something deeper. He gathered his net, its torn edges now glowing faintly, as if renewed by the very words they had shared. With a final glance of gratitude toward the crow-eyed sage, he turned and walked along the riverbank, his steps steady and purposeful, vanishing slowly into the mists of the new dawn.

Silence fell like a soft veil over the land, broken only by the whisper of the river. Then, from the opposite shore, a figure emerged—clad in simple white robes, staff in hand, his face serene yet curious. The Rishi paused a moment, the air around him humming with quiet authority and unspoken questions.

The Rishi's gaze locked onto Kakbhushundi, eyes searching with a mixture of wonder and inquiry as he spoke, his voice calm yet inquisitive: "Who are you, sage of silence?"

Kakbhushundi met the Rishi's steady gaze and bowed slightly in respect. "A friend who treads invisible paths," he replied softly, his voice a blend of warmth and mystery.

The Rishi took a step closer, folding his hands before him, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "You spoke to the fisherman," he said quietly. "What did you show him?" His tone held no judgment, only the pure yearning of a seeker.

Kakbhushundi's eyes drifted to the dark, still river. "I showed him what he does not yet know—how small hands can hold even the fate of the gods."

The Rishi's expression softened, a slow smile unfolding. "I have lived my life by this river's edge," he confessed, "seeking silence and solitude. I have asked it a thousand questions—on dharma, on truth. Tonight… it answered through him."

Kakbhushundi's gaze lingered on the water's surface, mirroring the depths beneath. "The river is a teacher. It does not answer, but holds the question until the heart learns to see."

Together, they stood in reverent stillness, watching the ripples fade and the dawn's light deepen.

Breaking the silence gently, the Rishi said, his voice heavy with quiet awe, "I feel something has shifted beneath its depths."

Kakbhushundi turned to him, his voice soft but sure. "It has. Something small gave way so something immense may pass."

The Rishi looked toward the horizon, a quiet hope in his eyes. "Will you stay and speak more?"

A shadow of sadness brushed Kakbhushundi's features, but his smile remained—a flicker of eternity in fleeting moments. "The story is no longer mine. I walk where words cannot reach."

The Rishi inclined his head, a knowing glint in his gaze. "Perhaps we will meet again—when the next net is cast, or when the next king kneels."

"Perhaps," Kakbhushundi murmured, turning away, his form melting into the forest's embrace, leaving behind the lingering scent of smoke and sage.