Deep beneath the soil, where sunlight has never touched and time flows like slow honey, lies Sutala — the hidden realm.
No stars.
No sky.
No seasons.
Only a golden city, built not of stone, but of tejas and mantra.
Its pillars hum with ancient hymns.
Its rivers flow with amrita.
Its people live in peace — not because they are strong,
but because they have forgotten pride.
And in its heart, on a throne of lotus light, sits Maharaja Bali.
Crowned.
Calm.
Cloaked in saffron.
His eyes are closed — not in sleep, but in dhyana.
For centuries, he has ruled here, guided by the blessing of Lord Vishnu:
"Though you are beneath the earth, you are above all kings. For you gave everything. And in giving, you became immortal."
But today…
Today, the throne trembled.
Not from earthquake.
Not from war.
From memory.
Bali opened his eyes.
And the city of Sutala woke.
Lights pulsed in the pillars.
The rivers stilled.
The priests of the inner temple turned to the great dome — where the Vishnu Yantra glowed crimson.
One of them ran to the throne.
"Maharaj! The Yantra burns! The seals tremble! The upper world… it calls!"
Bali did not rise.
He only asked:
"What day is it?"
"Krishna Janmashtami, Maharaj."
A silence.
Then, a whisper:
"Of course. He always worked in silence."
He stood.
Not hurried.
Not alarmed.
Like a mountain deciding to move.
And walked to the Chakra Dwar — the Door of the Discus — at the heart of Sutala.
It was a circle of black stone, inlaid with gold, shaped like the Sudarshana Chakra.
No one had passed through it in 5,000 years.
Not since Vamana sent him here — not in wrath, but in love.
Bali placed his hand on the stone.
And the Chakra spun.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Until the air hummed with Om.
A voice — not loud, but everywhere — spoke:
"Bali, son of Virochana, hear me.
The time of waiting is over.
The Chiranjeevi must gather.
The Ark cannot awaken without the Surrender."
Bali closed his eyes.
"I was cast down to rule in peace. Why call me back to the world of war?"
The voice — gentle, familiar — answered:
"This is not a war of swords.
It is a war of memory.
And only one who has given everything can hold the final key."
He opened his eyes.
Looked at his ministers.
His people.
His golden city.
"I must go."
"But, Maharaj!" cried a priest. "You are our king! Our protector!"
Bali smiled.
*"A king is not defined by his throne.
He is defined by his dharma.
And my dharma now lies above."*
He turned to the Chakra Dwar.
"Open it."
The priests chanted.
The Chakra spun faster.
And with a sound like a conch blown at the end of time, the door opened.
Not to a tunnel.
Not to stairs.
To sky.
To sea.
To Puri.
The door did not lead up.
It led through.
Bali took one last look at Sutala.
Then stepped forward.
And the realm beneath the earth sealed behind him.
He emerged on a hill outside Puri — at dawn.
No fanfare.
No lightning.
No roar.
Just a king in saffron, crown still upon his head, standing quietly as the first light touched the Jagannath Temple.
A farmer passing by stopped.
"Who are you, Baba? You look like a king from a story."
Bali smiled.
*"I am a king.
But the story is not over yet."*
He walked.
Not toward the temple gates.
Not with guards.
Not with pride.
With hands folded, like a devotee.
And as he walked, the earth remembered.
Birds sang in languages not heard since Dvapara Yuga.
Flowers bloomed in his footprints — lotuses, though no water was near.
Children playing near the shore turned and bowed — not because they knew him,
but because their souls did.
At the edge of the temple complex, he met Vyasa and Parashurama.
They did not speak.
They only looked at each other.
And in that silence, everything was known.
Vyasa bowed first.
Then Parashurama.
Bali raised them.
*"No bows, brothers. We are not here as king, sage, or warrior.
We are here as rememberers."*
Parashurama's eyes burned. "The world has forgotten dharma. Should we not burn it clean?"
Bali shook his head. *"Fire purifies. But only humility rebuilds.
I was given power. I lost it. And in losing it, I found peace.
The Ark does not need fury.
It needs surrender."*
Vyasa whispered, "Then you know what must be given?"
Bali looked toward the temple.
*"I do.
Not my life.
Not my crown.
But my immortality."*
A silence fell.
Heads turned.
Even the wind stilled.
Then Vyasa said, "The prophecy… it speaks of one sacrifice."
Bali smiled. "And who better to sacrifice eternity than one who has already given his kingdom?"
That night, as the temple bells rang for sandhya aarti,
five immortals stood on the hill overlooking Puri:
Ashwatthama, the Wound.Hanuman, the Love.Vyasa, the Story.Parashurama, the Fury.Kripacharya, the Oath.Bali, the Surrender.
Six.
But one was still missing.
A voice — soft, ancient — spoke from the shadows:
*"The seventh comes not from the earth.
She comes from the forest.
With a berry in her hand.
And a heart that never stopped offering."*
They turned.
But no one was there.
Only the wind.
Carrying the scent of neem.