✨ **Soul Verse**
Ek paan hote.
Ek shwas hota.
Ek jungle hote.
Ek punarjanma jhala.
*One leaf. One breath. One jungle. One rebirth awakens. *
Rudra was fifteen. Old enough to guide a trek. Young enough to still believe the jungle could speak, to feel its pulses in his veins as if his very heartbeat resonated with nature itself.
He lived in a quiet Panvel apartment with his mother, a schoolteacher whose comforting scent of chalk and jasmine mingled with the whispers of wisdom from countless books. His grandfather, a retired forest officer, had a way of speaking to trees as if they were old friends, as if each rustling leaf held a thousand untold stories.
To Rudra, his grandfather was not just family; he was the guiding light, the guru illuminating paths through shadows. "The jungle doesn't shout," he often advised with a gentle glint in his eyes. "It whispers. You just have to be still enough to hear."
Rudra was learning classical guitar, but what truly captivated him were the art of sketching forts etched in his imagination and immersing himself in tales of ancient legends. He had a gift—he was good at listening. Really listening. To people, yes, but also to silences; the kind that hummed between the wind's sighs, the trees' creaks, and nature's gentle embrace.
The trail wound through the Sahyadri, just beyond Rajmachi. Together with his friends, they embarked on a three-day retreat filled with nature, silence, and the unexplainable magic that brewed between them.
Malini was already engrossed in checking the route on her phone, a determined look in her eyes. "Guys, we're off by 0.3 kilometres. That's like... a whole mango tree, for crying out loud! We can't miss that!"
Aarav, always in front of the camera, was filming a reel titled *Jungle Gains: Day 1*, flexing his muscles with exaggerated flair. "Bro, flex when you step. The moss adds drama!" He grinned, flashing the camera an exaggerated wink.
Rudra walked ahead, his boots sinking into the moss that felt alive beneath him, breathing like memory. Niya followed quietly, her gaze tracing the trees as if seeking the secrets they held tight to their bark.
Malini sighed dramatically. "Why is he always ten steps ahead? Is this a trek or a spiritual solo?"
Aarav snorted, trying to stifle his laughter. "He's doing the monk thing again. Watch—he'll pause dramatically and claim the wind is whispering something profound."
Rudra, feeling the moment, paused. It was as if the very universe conspired to give him the spotlight. Dramatic, indeed.
Malini rolled her eyes. "Called it."
He tilted his head, eyes closed, embracing the moment. The trees seemed to lean in closer as the wind shifted, swirling around him like an ancient hymn.
"This ridge," Rudra murmured, the words spilling from his lips like a secret. "It feels like it's watching us."
Aarav leaned in toward Malini, whispering, "Okay, but if the ridge starts tweeting, I'm out."
Malini chuckled, the sound brightening the air. "Or if it asks for a selfie."
Niya, however, remained silent, a quiet observer. She watched Rudra's face with a rare intensity, not mocking but absorbing him, the way Meera once did—centuries ago, perhaps.
That evening, around the crackling campfire, laughter mixed with the gentle hum of crickets. Someone played a clip from an old Ramayana rerun.
"Meghnad," the narrator's voice echoed in the night. "The son of Ravana. Fierce. Loyal."
Rudra froze as the name reverberated within him—both wrong and right, a haunting whisper that awakened something deep. Meghnad. Meghraj.
Suddenly, the world dimmed—not with the absence of light, but with the weight of memory.
He recalled fragments from his life—five years old, dreaming of a majestic black horse with a white flame burning brightly on its brow; seven, sketching the same horse repeatedly, oblivious to why it held such an allure; nine, waking with clenched fists, breathless as he whispered into the void, "Ride with me." Eleven was a storm of tears after a dream where the horse vanished into ethereal mist.
"Why do I feel like I've ridden him?" he whispered, feeling the weight of his awareness.
The TV flickered, casting shadows around the group. The jungle stirred behind him, charged with an unseen energy.
Niya noticed his sudden stillness. She didn't interrupt but moved closer, offering an anchor as if she understood the tempest raging within him. He felt it—a quiet tether binding him to a past he had yet to realize fully.
The next morning, Rudra woke before dawn, as if summoned. The jungle lay still, yet it was alive, thrumming with an ancient pulse.
Birdsong greeted him, but beneath that harmonious serenade lurked a rhythm older than time—a breath that resonated through the roots beneath his feet.
He stepped outside his tent, barefoot, drawn irresistibly toward the trees, the mist swirling around him like a gentle invitation.
As the mist parted like a velvet curtain, he stood frozen. There before him—a horse, all black as the midnight monsoon sky. Its coat didn't glitter with light; it shimmered with memory itself, each movement echoing tales of old. Its mane danced like the rushing jungle wind, untamed and wild. And there, pulsing softly on its brow, was a white flame-shaped mark—not painted nor born, but something deep within him that had been remembered.
Rudra felt his breath caught in his throat, his knees weak as the enormity of the moment washed over him. "This isn't happening," he gasped. "Horses don't just appear. Not like this. Not like dreams."
The horse's eyes met his—deep, ancient, and utterly unreadable. There was a wisdom there, not wild nor tame, but something transcendent.
"You're not supposed to be here," Rudra said, his voice barely a whisper.
The horse snorted, a low rumble that resonated like distant thunder, shaking the very ground beneath his feet.
"Neither am I," Rudra replied, drawing closer. "But the jungle remembers."
He took a cautious step forward. The horse didn't flinch. Muscles rippled beneath its skin like rivers flowing under stone. Its breath was steady, warm, and oddly familiar, stirring something long buried within Rudra's heart.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the silky mane. "Meghraj," he uttered softly, almost reverently.
The name felt like a promise fulfilled, not new but etched deep into his soul. The horse blinked—slowly, deliberately—before stepping forward with a graceful calmness.
One hoof, then another. Not menacing. Not curious. Something else entirely—recognition, perhaps.
Lowering its head, it gently pressed its brow against Rudra's shoulder.
Rudra gasped—not out of fear but from an overwhelming rush of memory. A thousand hoofbeats echoed in his chest, whispering tales of battlefields and vows made beneath the endless sky—a red thread binding them together across time and space.
"I've seen you," Rudra murmured, feeling the weight of lost years. "I've lost you. I've waited."
The horse exhaled—a warm gust rolling off him like a summer rain, infused with the scent of sandalwood and earth.
"You remember me."
Meghraj snorted, then playfully nudged Rudra's sketch pouch. Inside lay a drawing—half-finished, depicting a fort atop a ridge, crowned by a flame marking a path through life.
Rudra pulled it out. The horse's intense gaze focused on it, then turned toward the dense jungle, beckoning him.
"You want me to finish the map. The one I started lifetimes ago," Rudra realized, elation rising within him.
The horse didn't need to answer. It stepped into the depths of the trees. Rudra followed, the threads of destiny weaving tighter around them.
Later, during the trek briefing, Rudra spoke with a newfound gravity, as if the jungle itself had instilled wisdom in him. "We'll take the ridge trail," he declared firmly. "It's steeper, yes, but it listens."
Malini frowned, confusion dancing in her eyes. "Listens? What do you mean?"
"The jungle speaks," Rudra replied, determination igniting a spark within him. "If you're quiet enough, you'll hear it too."
The group exchanged glances, scepticism mingling with curiosity. Still, Rudra stood resolutely at the forefront, ready to guide them into the embrace of the jungle—where whispers turned into stories, and each heartbeat resonated with the rhythm of rebirth.
She gave him a look.
"You sound like a priest."
Rudra smiled, eyes on the horizon.
"Maybe I was one. Once."
That night, Rudra sat by the fire, sketching a map. Not from GPS. Not from memory. From instinct.
A ridge. A bend. A clearing with a flame. A spiral carved into stone. A प्राणचक्र (Prānchakra)—a soul spiral.
He whispered a verse aloud. Niya overheard.
Ek Ghoda milala.
Ek atma halala.
Ek atma halala.
Ek nave jeevan suru zale.
(One horse was found. One soul stirred. One soul stirred. One awakening began.)
He didn't know it yet, but this was a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā)—a soul verse. Not composed. Remembered.
"The silence trembled, carrying a promise not yet fulfilled."