✨ Soul Verse
Ek talvar hoti.
Ek dhvani hota.
Ek bandhan hote.
Ek pratidnya hoti.
(One sword. One sound. One bond. One vow.)
Veeraj stood at the precipice of the ridge, heart pounding with anticipation. At fifteen, he was poised between innocence and manhood, the incense of temple rituals still clinging to his armour. Around his wrist, a red thread coiled—a protective spirit, a symbol of vows and unbreakable brotherhood. Mist from the jungle curled around him, whispering of ancient battles.
Before him, the war field stretched—muddy, sacred, flags cracking in the wind, their colours vivid against a sky bruised with the threat of conflict. Drums pounded, echoing through his chest like the heartbeat of the land. The enemy waited across the field, gathering like storm clouds.
Malhar, his closest friend and fellow warrior, rode up beside him. Malhar's eyes usually glittered with mischief, but now, as he leaned closer, his hand trembled slightly on the reins. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely above the wind. "You sure about this, Veeraj? I can almost taste the storm in the air."
Veeraj met Malhar's eyes—both steely and vulnerable. "We trained for this, Malhar. Every bruise and scar, every sleepless night—this is what we've been forged for."
Malhar's bravado flickered, his honest fear escaping. "Training's one thing, Veeraj. Facing death is another. I keep wondering if I'm ready."
Veeraj nodded slowly, the gravity of Malhar's words settling in his chest. "Dharma doesn't change with the battlefield. Guruji always said—honour and righteousness don't falter, even when we do."
Malhar straightened, eyes distant with memory. Guruji's voice seemed to echo in the wind: "Never chase glory, boys. Glory blinds. Chase clarity. Strike only when the wind agrees. Let the jungle speak before you do."
Veeraj's fingers traced the red thread on his wrist, nerves thrumming beneath his skin. This was more than a talisman—every knot tied with hope, every twist a memory. He lowered his voice, as if confessing to the jungle itself. "I vowed to protect. That's more than fighting. That's remembering who we are."
With determination, he raised his hand, signaling the warriors behind him to still. Their collective breath became a symphony of focused energy. Veeraj scanned the ridge one last time, watching the enemy advance—loud, overconfident, unstoppable as a tide.
"They'll reach the bend in two minutes," he called out. "We hold the ridge. Let them climb."
Malhar nodded, the weight of their mission clear in his eyes. "And then?"
"Then…" Veeraj hesitated, listening to the hush that settled over the leaves. "We let the jungle speak for us. Its silence will be our shield."
As the enemy climbed, the path narrowed and the jungle thickened, foliage alive and alert. Veeraj's hand signaled the archers hidden in the trees. They emerged like spirits—silent, precise, unwavering.
"Archers, fire!" he commanded. Arrows flew from the trees like whispers on the wind. The enemy faltered, confusion and fear replacing bravado.
Taking a deep breath, Veeraj charged, Meghraj's thunderous hoofbeats filling the air, mane billowing, white flame pulsing through chaos. Veeraj's sword gleamed with resolve, each strike measured and clean—discipline born of years of training.
He fought not with rage, but with the calm of one who remembers. As he glimpsed the enemy's faces—so young, so fearful—doubt flickered in his heart and he hesitated.
"Strike only when the wind agrees," Guruji's wisdom echoed.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of wet earth and destiny. Veeraj moved again, drawing strength from the jungle's spirit.
Malhar fought at his side, a blur of courage and reckless joy. Even as a blade whistled past his ear, he barked out, "You owe me a mango climb after this!" His laughter rang out—defiant, desperate, alive—a shard of childhood piercing the chaos.
"You survive, I'll climb two!" Veeraj shot back, a shaky grin flickering despite the fear twisting in his gut.
Memories surged—climbing mango trees for ripe fruit, training sessions when Malhar shielded him from a blow. "You're not just fast," Veeraj had once said, admiration in his tone. "You're loyal."
"Fast loyalty," Malhar had grinned—the best kind.
As daylight faded, the battle reached its climax. The ridge was theirs; they reclaimed it. The jungle fell silent, a witness to their triumph and sacrifice.
Veeraj dismounted, exhaustion heavy in his breath. The red thread still held fast, persistent reminder of his promises. Malhar joined him, steady even under the weight of victory.
"You led like a priest today," Malhar said, voice reverent.
"We both knelt before one," Veeraj replied, recalling their guru's lessons. "He taught us to listen before we strike, to let silence guide our hands."
A breeze rustled the jungle. In the churned earth, Veeraj spotted a spiral—etched by accident or by memory, perhaps an arrow, perhaps Meghraj's hoof, or something older still.
He knelt and traced the shape with his finger, a connection kindling within him. "One vow," he whispered to the dusk. "One echo."
Malhar watched, eyes shining with unshed tears. "If you fall, Veeraj, I'll carry your vow—even if the reason fades. That's my promise."
Veeraj looked up, meeting his friend's gaze. "Then you won't forget. Not truly. The essence of our bond will remain."
The vow would ripple through memory, silence, lifetimes—as the jungle bore witness to their strength and unity. They sat in tranquil silence, the jungle listening, holding the weight of a moment larger than life.
With conviction, Veeraj spoke the soul verse into the twilight:
Ek talvar hoti.
Ek dhvani hota.
Ek bandhan hote.
Ek pratidnya hoti.
He did not know it yet, but what he recited was a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā)—a soul verse not composed, but remembered, binding his spirit with the jungle, his brothers, and the timeless wisdom of the land.