The child did not speak of her dream.
Not to her mother, grinding wheat in the morning sun.
Not to her brother, playing with a broken toy car.
Not even to the village priest, who blessed her forehead and said, "You have quiet eyes, beti. Like a sadhvi."
She only stood by the neem tree.
Watched the sea.
Waited.
Because the dream had not ended.
It had continued.
Every night now:
The golden city.
The seven shadows.
The blind woman.
And the voice — not loud, but inescapable:
"They will come before you.
They will wear saffron.
They will chant my name.
But their hearts will be empty.
Do not trust the ones who speak of dharma…
but do not offer the berry."
On the seventh night, she woke screaming.
Not in fear.
In grief.
She ran to the shore.
And there — beneath the waves —
a golden light pulsed.
Not steady.
Not soft.
Like a heartbeat trying to return.
She fell to her knees.
And without knowing why,
she placed her palm on the sand,
and whispered:
"I remember."
The sea stilled.
And from the depths,
a sound rose —
not a roar.
Not a song.
A conch.
Blown from the bottom of time.
In Bangalore, Dr. Arvind Mehta stared at his screen.
He had not returned to ISRO.
But he had not stopped watching.
From a small apartment, he monitored deep-sea sensors, satellite feeds, and seismic patterns — all focused on the coast near Dwarka.
And now, the data exploded.
Thermal anomaly: Rising from the ocean floor.Acoustic signature: A low-frequency hum — matching the Sanskrit vowel "Om" at 137 Hz.Magnetic distortion: Compasses in fishing boats were spinning.And most chilling:
A structure — 12 kilometers wide — rising from the seabed.
Not natural.
Not modern.
Geometric. Divine.
He zoomed in.
The satellite image was blurry — distorted by water and energy fields.
But the shape was unmistakable.
A lotus.
Eight petals.
A central dome.
And at its heart — a spire shaped like a Sudarshana Chakra.
His breath stopped.
"Dwaraka."
He reached for his phone.
Stopped.
Who would believe him?
The government had dismissed him.
The world mocked him.
But then — a knock.
At his door.
He opened it.
A young sadhu stood there — not from any known order.
Saffron robes.
Wooden beads.
Eyes sharp as flint.
"You see it too," the sadhu said.
Not a question.
"Who are you?" Arvind asked.
"A servant of the Ark," he said. "We are called theDharma Rakshak Sangh. We have waited 5,000 years for this moment. Dwaraka is returning. And we must claim it — before the unworthy do."
Arvind narrowed his eyes. "How do you know about the Ark?"
The sadhu smiled. "We were told. In dreams. In visions. By the ones who cannot die."
"Which ones?"
"All of them," the sadhu whispered. "They spoke to our founder. They said: 'When the city rises, the guardians must rise with it.'"
Arvind felt a chill.
He had seen that dream.
He had felt the Ark.
But this man…
his energy was off.
Like a temple bell struck too hard —
the sound was right,
but the soul was cracked.
"I'll come," Arvind said slowly. "But I'm not joining you. I'm watching."
The sadhu smiled.
Not warmly.
Like a hunter who had found his prey.
"Come then, scientist.
See the rebirth of dharma.
With your own eyes."
In the Himalayas, Hanuman leapt.
From Kedarnath to the Narmada.
From the Narmada to Puri.
Faster than wind.
Faster than thought.
He did not go to the temple.
He went to the shore.
Where the child stood.
She did not turn.
But she said, "You came."
Hanuman landed softly.
"You called."
"I didn't speak."
"You didn't have to," he said. "The earth felt your dream. The Ark heard your voice."
She looked at him — not afraid.
Not amazed.
Like she had known him forever.
"They are coming," she said. "The ones who wear dharma like a coat.
They will say they serve the Ark.
But they serve only power."
Hanuman's eyes darkened.
"The Dharma Rakshak Sangh."
"You know them?"
"I do not," Hanuman said. "But I know theabsence of love.
And that is what they carry."
She handed him a neem berry.
"Take this.
To the others.
Let them know…
the dream is true."
He took it.
And the moment he did,
a vision tore through him:
Dwaraka rising, golden, singing.A group of saffron-clad men entering the Ark chamber.One placing a modern device on the pedestal — not to awaken, but to control.The Ark screaming in silence.And the child, standing alone,
holding out a berry —
while the world looked away.
Hanuman closed his eyes.
"It has begun."
"What has?" she asked.
"The second fall.
Not of dharma.
Ofthose who pretend to hold it."
That night, the young priest of Puri lit a lamp before the idol of Jagannath.
"Tell me what to do," he whispered.
The lamp flame turned blue.
And from the sanctum, a voice — not loud, but everywhere — spoke:
"The city returns.
The lie awakens.
The Rememberers must gather again.
For the greatest threat is not the one who denies dharma…
but the one who wears it as a mask."
The priest fell to his knees.
He knew what he had to do.
He took off his sacred thread.
Put on simple clothes.
And walked out of the temple.
Not as a priest.
As a witness.
Far beneath the sea,
in the heart of the rising city,
the Ark pulsed —
not with joy.
Not with power.
But with warning.
And in the silence,
a single phrase glowed in the ancient chamber:
"सत्यं वद। धर्मं चर।"
"Speak truth. Walk dharma."
Then, the light dimmed.
Not gone.
Waiting.
For the right hands.
The right heart.
The right offering.