Quick, gleeful footsteps echoed across the dusty courtyard, like a child stomping through dry earth with playful abandon, each step crisp and bright.
Hmm? A child?
Aditi's brows drew together in a soft frown, serenity tinged with a hint of curiosity. This hermitage lay in a secluded valley, bordered by wild hills where only beasts roamed. Even the Yakshas and Rakshasas passed through rarely.
So then… a child?
She slowly opened her eyes.
The morning haze had just begun to lift when she heard laughter. A small figure skipped into view, conch in hand, barefoot and brimming with joy. The child twirled mid-leap and landed with a dramatic stomp, kicking up a spray of dust.
Aditi blinked.
She stared, her head tilting. The boy was naked, sun-kissed, grinning, every bit the spitting image of her son from long ago.
"…Indra?" she murmured, uncertain.
The child's face split into a mischievous crescent grin.
"Hehehe!" he giggled, arms flung wide as his voice echoed like a temple bell across the quiet forest.
Aditi's breath caught.
She stood from her stone seat, lifting the hem of her sari. Her slender form bent forward with care as she walked toward him, disbelief flickering behind her gaze.
The likeness was uncanny.
"…Indra?" she repeated softly.
She reached out with trembling fingers to caress his cheek—
Whoosh.
Her hand slipped through the air.
"Eh?!"
She waved her hand again, cutting through nothing.
"Hehehehahaha!"
Laughter echoed from the side. Startled, Aditi turned, and there he was.
A tall, well-built youth stood nearby, arms crossed smugly over his chest. His torso bare, dhoti flowing like a warrior's sash, and rudraksha beads swinging lightly around his neck. His grin could've cracked the sky.
"Mother, how was my Maya?" he said, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Maya, the illusory force that veils reality.
If Brahman was the sun, Maya was its light, indistinguishable, ever-present, and endlessly deceptive.
Indra's chest swelled with pride. All that penance, all that effort had finally paid off. His mastery over Maya was now so refined, so precise, that even the wisest Rishis with divine sight could not see through his illusions.
Even his own mother hadn't recognized him. He grinned, smug and delighted, letting out a soft, victorious laugh.
But across from him… his mother's smile had vanished.
Aditi's expression dropped like a curtain. Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw locked. The warmth in her gaze froze to ice. That was no longer a loving mother standing there.
That was a full-force monsoon in human form, hands on her hips.
Indra's laugh trailed off into an awkward cough.
Snap!
Aditi didn't say a word. She turned, marched to the side of the hermitage, and plucked a long, smooth branch from the fence like she'd been waiting years for this moment.
Swish!
The branch sliced through the air with that terrifying speed only mothers seemed to possess. It wasn't thick, but it didn't need to be. It was the shape of divine judgment—straight, polished, and ready.
Indra took a cautious step back. "Mother?"
Crackle!
A jolt of light flared across his body. The illusion shattered in a flash of blue. His real form returned, robes swirling and nerves unraveling.
"W-Wait! Mother!" he stammered, hands up in surrender. "It was just a little test! I was just practicing my Maya!"
But Aditi was already moving.
She didn't yell. She didn't chase. She just walked toward him with the calm, terrifying certainty of someone who'd raised too many sons and was done with nonsense.
The branch came up high.
Thwack!
It didn't hurt, not really. Just enough to sting. Just enough to remind him that no matter how powerful he became, he'd never outgrow the reach of his mother's justice.
Aditi let out a breath through her nose.
She flipped the branch upside down, slid it under her arm like a well-used tool, and folded her arms with a slow shake of her head.
"Don't try that again," she muttered. Her knuckles rapped against his forehead with a gentle but unmistakable bonk.
"Yes, Mother!" Indra squeaked, standing up straighter than he had in centuries. "No more illusions! Promise!"
Still squinting, Aditi stepped around him like she was inspecting a cracked pot.
He stood still, completely cowed. Deva or not, there were few forces in the cosmos more terrifying than an angry mom with a stick.
"You stopped your penance, didn't you?"
"…Yes," Indra replied, sheepishly.
"Did anyone visit?"
"Ah... wait, how did you know?" His eyes widened. "Father brought someone to look for me!"
Aditi sighed again, this time with that deep weariness only a mother of immortals knows.
Aditi tilted her head, blinked once, and slowly shook it with a quiet sigh.
Pity. It seemed Shachi shared no deeper bond with her son, no lingering warmth, no unspoken affection. She had merely fulfilled her duty: tending to Indra during his penance, checking on him… and quietly departing.
"What's wrong?"
Indra's gaze flicked to her, catching the subtle shift in her expression. There was a strange glint in his eyes, half-teasing, half-curious.
Aditi smiled gently, smoothing the air between them. "Nothing. What brings you to me?"
"I want to stay here for a while. Take care of my sweet mother."
Aditi blinked, surprised but moved.
"Alright," she said softly. She raised a hand and brushed his cheek, her touch feather-light.
"Stay as long as you like. A mother's shelter is eternal."
Indra stared at her for a moment, puzzled. Was that pity in her eyes?
Strange. Still, he shrugged it off with a grin. "Then I'll stay!"
His mother's āshram was peaceful and secluded, perfect for refining the Maya he had started to master in his penance.
Far away, at the edge of the realms.
Inside a radiant palace adorned with hanging lamps and towering pillars of gold, a lone figure moved with divine grace.
Shachi was radiant in a flowing sari of crimson and gold, the silk catching the light like fire. In her arms, she cradled a golden platter, steady and reverent. Pots of butter, milk, and sacred offerings rested upon it, glistening in the glow.
"Father," she called at the archway. "I'm going to Grandmother's ashram. I want to offer these for the puja."
Puloman turned, momentarily surprised. Then, his eyes softened.
"You've grown wise, Shachi," he said, nodding with approval.
In the patalaloka, he'd often failed to think of his own mother, Danu. Life had been harsh. But his daughter remembered. No wonder she had been away recently. She must have searched out her sanctuary.
"Go," he said warmly. "And tell her, her son is missing her."
Shachi smiled and nodded.
Cradling the platter, she lifted into the sky in a blaze of light.
Whirr—!
She soared like a comet across the heavens, her sari trailing like divine fire. A red arc against the firmament.
"This one's for Grandmother Aditi," she whispered, her eyes gleaming.
"I'll visit Grandmother Danu too." Her laughter trailed behind her, like the song of dawn itself.
...
Author's note: Before he became the terror of kshatriyas, Kartavirya Arjuna was a serious tapasvi. On the advice of his guru, he performed very long austerities and worshipped Dattatreya, the son of Atri and Anasuya.
Pleased, Dattatreya told him to ask a boon. Kartavirya did not just ask for raw power. He asked for strength to protect his subjects, knowledge of dharma, a thousand arms to crush enemies, and freedom of movement on land, in water, and in the sky.
Dattatreya granted it all and declared that he would become a Chakravarti Samrat, a world emperor. Bharata (son of Dushyanta and Shakuntala, the king after whom Bharata varsha is named), Mandhata (ancestor of Rama, Suryavanshi, who by sheer force of will conquered the entire earth in a single day), Sagara (whose descendant is the reason that Ganga descended to earth), Kartavirya Arjuna, Rama (during Rama Rajya), and Yudhishthira (Ashvamedha performed by Arjuna) are all counted among such emperors.
Some traditions add that Narada Purana calls Kartavirya Arjuna an incarnation of the Sudarshana Chakra, born so that Vishnu, in the form of Parashuram, could confront him.
...
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