Shachi glided across the sky like a soft rainbow, her form shimmering with faint golden light. She was swift and almost impatient as she soared through the skies, heading straight for Jambudvipa, the place of penance she had last visited.
Before her sacred feet could touch the earth, her divine sight perceived something unsettling.
In the heart of the forest glade, a vast depression marred the land. It was a circular pit, deep and silent. The trees stood untouched, serene as ever, yet the clearing itself had been hollowed out by a force neither natural nor familiar.
No birds sang. The wind was still. No yaksha wandered, no kinnara whispered their songs. Not even a flicker of shadow remained.
"What is this...?" she breathed.
A soft gasp slipped from her lips. Her arms trembled, and the golden plate of offerings tilted slightly in her hands.
She descended gently, her anklets ringing with every step as she touched the ground. With quiet urgency, she walked toward the crater, her sari flowing behind her like a sacred flame carried by the wind.
She circled the pit in silence. Still, there was nothing.
No footprints in the dust. No blood. No trace of fire or scattered offerings. Only silence wrapped in absence.
"There are no signs of struggle. No violence. Could he have completed his tapasya and chosen to leave?" she murmured.
Her voice barely rose above the breeze, which stirred only to carry her words into the void.
Disappointment settled over her like twilight. She stood still, the forest whispering around her, the crimson and gold folds of her sari catching the wind like a fading hymn.
…
Brahmaloka.
From his eternal seat, Brahma gazed down upon Jambudvipa, his divine vision focused on Shachi, the daughter of Puloman.
"Should she be guided?" he murmured, eyes narrowing.
He glanced sideways at Sarasvati, the goddess of wisdom, seated beside him. As the Creator, he rarely descended to the mortal plane. But Sarasvati… she could descend and offer insight to the girl if needed.
Before he could speak the thought aloud, his eyes widened subtly.
So fast. Vishnu had already intervened.
…
Vaikuntha.
On the serpent throne of Ananta, Vishnu stirred. His half-lidded eyes opened with calm precision, a quiet smile forming beneath their golden glow.
"It is time I lend both of them aid," he said softly.
For some time now, he had watched this unfold, waiting for the right moment. Now it had come.
A golden light rose from his chest and shimmered through the realms, descending toward the Bhu-loka like a falling star.
…
A gentle breeze swept through the forest clearing, rustling the leaves and lifting the hem of Shachi's sari like ripples on a sacred river. She stood motionless, a vision of sorrow and grace, as if sculpted from moonlight and longing.
"Devi."
The word rang out, soft yet clear.
Shachi turned, startled.
A young traveler stood behind her, his presence calm and composed. He looked like a noble ascetic. His eyes were serene, deep as monsoon skies. A saffron-gray turban crowned his head, and a two-toned shawl with blue on the outside and white within rested over his shoulders. Around his neck hung rudraksha beads and a prayer stone that shimmered faintly.
But no...
Disappointment dimmed the light in her eyes.
It was not him. Not the ascetic she had hoped to find.
Lowering her gaze with quiet poise, she asked, "Can I help you?"
"I am merely a traveler," the man replied. "I passed this way and found myself parched. May I ask for a little water?"
He gestured gently to the golden plate in her hands, his voice humble.
Shachi's brow creased. "I am sorry. This is milk meant for pūjā. But if you wait, I will fetch some water for you."
The traveler gave a soft chuckle, lifting his hands in a gesture of peace.
"There is no need, Devi."
"If a soul dedicates itself wholly to the truth, then the body becomes a temple. And what is consumed within a temple, be it milk or water, becomes an offering to the gods."
He stepped forward slightly, sunlight catching on his raised finger. It shimmered faintly, as if touched by divine light.
"I am such a devotee," he said with a smile that carried both reverence and mirth. "Let me offer this milk… to Narayana."
He bent with a quiet reverence, hands folded in gratitude. He waited, unmoving.
Shachi hesitated. His words made sense. He had come far, and his thirst seemed genuine. His presence was respectful and kind.
She knelt slowly, setting the suvarna-thāli down on the grass. Lifting the kalasha from its center, she tilted it with practiced grace. A ribbon of white milk flowed into the traveler's open hands.
He received it silently, drinking in slow, deliberate sips, as though each drop was a prayer.
When he finished, he straightened with a sigh of contentment and wiped the corners of his mouth.
"You are compassionate," he said. "But your heart seems burdened. Your smile... it does not reach your eyes."
Shachi's hands tightened around the now-empty pot. She turned, her gaze falling on the great hollow in the earth.
"There was an ascetic who meditated here," she said softly. "He had no shelter. No attendants. Alone, like a lion cub cast from the pride, he endured the elements and the silence. I came to see him again. But now... he is gone."
Her voice trembled. Her crimson and gold sari fluttered around her as she looked out toward the mountains, eyes shining with quiet concern.
"I am worried for him."
The traveler watched her closely. His smile faltered.
Indra? She is going to look for him…
He had known Indra through kalpas, through wars and lila. Never had he been described like this. Her perception of him was... so pure. So untouched by reputation.
The traveler let out a soft breath, both amused and touched.
"You care deeply for this yogi," he said lightly. "He must have endured greatly to earn such concern. May I ask how you came to know him?"
Shachi blinked. Then, as if a veil had lifted, she smiled in realization.
"Grandmother..." she whispered. "Aditi told me."
With newfound clarity, she turned toward the distant hills.
"Thank you."
Her voice was bright, like the chime of a temple bell at dawn. She turned with a whirl of gold and crimson, her sari blooming like a lotus, and ran with joy through the trees.
Tap tap tap.
Her footsteps echoed, quick and light, like the patter of rain across lotus leaves.
The traveler watched her vanish into the forest.
Then a soft light shimmered across his skin.
In the next breath, the form of Vishnu emerged serene, radiant, four-armed, smiling with both affection and mischief.
"Matchmaking," he said, with a sigh that hinted at cosmic amusement. "It suits me well."
His gaze shifted. But his smile faded.
A flicker of divya-drishti swept across his eyes. Veils upon veils of illusion shimmered like silken layers of dream, enfolding the earth below.
"Maya," Vishnu murmured. "Concealed with such skill…"
The thatched āśrama of Aditi had vanished, swallowed in Indra's crafted illusion. Not even the devas would easily find it.
"Shachi won't be able to reach it," Vishnu whispered, his brows furrowing. "Not unless I intervene."
He raised one hand slowly, preparing.
This was no longer just a game of devotion.
This was a game of Maya. And Vishnu, the one known as Mayadhisa, the ruler of Maya, had just stepped onto the board.
...
Author's note: For a long time after that boon, Kartavirya Arjuna actually lived the way a Chakravarti is supposed to.
He returned to Mahishmati, his body now bearing a thousand mighty arms, and he reorganised his kingdom, punished thieves and cruel landlords, opened granaries in times of famine, and made sure that no one went hungry. In those years, people praised him as a dharmic king, not as a tyrant.
His fame spread. With his boon of free movement over land, water, and sky, Kartavirya marched with his armies like a living storm. He defeated rival kings without much bloodshed, forcing many to accept his suzerainty and rule justly in their own realms.
Others fell before him in battle, unable to stand against the avalanche of weapons his thousand hands could cast and draw at once. Puranas describe him seated in a golden chariot, bearing countless bows, hurling streams of arrows so dense that the sun seemed to dim.
In time, his conquests made him what Dattatreya had foretold, a Chakravarti Samrat, lord of many directions. Yaganas were conducted, gifts were given in thousands, and bards sang that no beggar left his court empty-handed.
For a while, his strength really did protect his subjects.
Then, slowly, that strength hardened into pride, and the king who had prayed for dharma began to trust more in his own power than in the boon that granted it.