There was no sunrise anymore.
The sky had forgotten light.
What passed for morning was only a thinner shade of night.
The Age of Kali had rotted through the bones of existence.
Even the gods had turned their faces away.
Men no longer prayed — they bargained.
Rulers no longer protected — they devoured.
And dharma — the pillar of worlds — stood shattered,
its last fragment trembling beneath the weight of deceit.
Temples echoed not with hymns, but with the laughter of false prophets.
Children were born without innocence.
The rivers, once holy, now carried ash and blood.
The wind itself stank of greed.
The earth groaned.
Every tremor was her cry, every storm her scream.
No offering could soothe her — for what is an offering worth
when the hand that gives it is stained with sin?
The Weeping of Prithvi
In the depths of her agony, Prithvi Devi rose from her own cracked body,
a specter of grief and exhaustion.
Her crown of green had turned to dust; her rivers trailed like tears down her face.
She looked upon her creation — and saw only ruin.
"My children," she whispered, "have devoured one another.
My forests are tombs, my oceans graveyards.
The beasts have fled to silence,
for man has become the cruelest of them all."
No sound answered her but thunder — not from rainclouds, but from wrath.
So she turned her gaze upward, toward the realms of eternity,
and cried out — not with voice, but with the resonance of her suffering.
The Silent Heavens
But the heavens were silent.
Indra's throne was empty; his banner torn.
Agni's flame flickered weakly, fed only by the last remnants of sacrifice.
The seven rishis, lost in the trance of sorrow, spoke not.
Even Vishnu, who slept upon the cosmic ocean, stirred not.
For Kali had spread even across the heavens — twisting memory, dulling devotion, dimming the light of truth.
Aeons passed in that silence — until, at last,
from the bottomless void came a tremor of consciousness.
The serpent Ananta shuddered.
The ocean of creation rippled.
And the eyes of Vishnu opened.
The Last Plea
Prithvi bowed before Him, trembling.
"O Preserver of all worlds, how long must this age of filth endure?
I can no longer bear the weight of their cruelty.
The rivers run dry, the skies burn black.
The cries of the innocent echo where once your name was sung."
For a long moment, Vishnu said nothing.
His gaze stretched through the planes — from heaven to hell, from birth to decay.
He saw a world where truth was mocked, love was bartered, and faith was entertainment.
When He finally spoke, His voice carried the stillness of endings.
"Even the stars have forgotten their duty.
The wheel must turn again."
"Then end it, my Lord," Prithvi begged. "End it, or save it."
Vishnu's smile was sorrowful, ancient.
"To save what must end is to delay its rebirth.
But from the ashes of dharma, a blade shall rise — forged in my own essence.
When deceit crowns itself as truth, I shall walk among men once more. "
The Cosmic Shudder
And as He spoke, the universe convulsed.
The oceans turned black, their waves thrashing like dying beasts.
The mountains cracked open, bleeding molten fire.
The constellations fractured — the Saptarishi fading one by one.
For seven days and seven nights, the world howled.
Thunder without clouds.
Rain without water.
And in the distance, the faint sound of a conch — not in victory, but as a warning.
The Hidden Birth
Then, when the world lay on the brink of silence —
when the cries of men had turned to murmurs and even the devas dared not speak —
a light appeared in the land no mortal could find.
In the hidden kingdom beyond illusion.
The last seed of purity in a corrupted world.
There, beneath a sky heavy with storm and omen,
a woman screamed in labor.
Lightning split the horizon as the air itself trembled with sacred power.
The seven sages, their bodies radiant like starlight, encircled the humble dwelling,
chanting mantras.