The child dreamed in colour.
Not the world — grey, tired, half-awake — but her dream.
A sky of liquid gold.
A city rising from the sea — not of stone, but of light and sound.
Towers shaped like conch shells.
Streets paved with singing crystal.
And at its heart, a temple that breathed.
She saw seven figures standing on the shore —
not moving, not speaking —
but remembering.
And one woman — blind, old, barefoot —
holding out a berry.
"Eat," she said.
"It is not bitter.
It istruth."
Then, a voice — deep, blue, eternal — whispered:
"Dwaraka is awake."
The child woke.
Not screaming.
Not crying.
Just… knowing.
She sat up on her mat.
The hut was dark.
Her parents slept.
But outside, the neem tree rustled — though there was no wind.
She walked barefoot to it.
Plucked a berry.
Held it in her palm.
And without tasting it,
she said:
"It is sweet."
At that same moment,
in the Arabian Sea,
three miles off the coast of Bet Dwarka,
the water boiled.
Not from heat.
Not from gas.
From push.
Something beneath the ocean floor —
massive, ancient, humming —
shifted.
Satellites in space blinked.
A deep-sea sensor from an underwater drone caught a pulse:
7.83 Hz — Earth's heartbeat — but layered with Sanskrit tonal patterns.
The data vanished before it could be saved.
But on the coast,
old Jhunjhar — the fisherman who once pulled the black tablet from the sea —
woke gasping.
He ran to the shore.
Stared into the black water.
And whispered:
"It's not rising.
It'sreturning."
In the Himalayas, Hanuman opened his eyes.
Not startled.
Not alarmed.
But certain.
He rose.
And for the first time in years,
he faced the west —
toward Dwaraka.
The wind carried a scent:
salt, neem, and something older —
blue lotus.
His tail uncurled.
His hands clenched.
And from his chest, a sound rose —
not a roar.
Not a chant.
A name.
"Krishna."
On the banks of the Narmada, Vyasa sat by the river.
A new palm leaf in his hand.
A reed pen.
But he did not write.
Because the words were already there —
etched into the leaf by no hand,
in a script that shifted like water.
It read:
"When the city returns,
the lie will be revealed.
Not all who serve dharma wear devotion.
Some wear its mask.
And they will try to claim the Ark."
Vyasa closed his eyes.
"So soon?"
From the shadows, a voice — soft, ancient — answered:
"The world forgot again.
Not in a century.
In a decade."
He turned.
But no one was there.
Only the river.
And the wind.
Carrying a new word:
"Dwaraka."
In Puri, the young priest — the boy who had dreamed of Shabari —
woke in the temple.
The idol of Jagannath was facing him.
Though no one had moved it.
And on its lap,
a single neem berry — fresh, glowing faintly.
He picked it up.
And for the first time,
he did not offer it.
He ate it.
And in that moment,
he remembered:
Not one life.
Not ten.
Butall of them.
He fell to his knees.
Whispered:
"We were wrong.
The Ark was not the end.
It was thebeginning."