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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2 – The Prince of Kuru

The palace of Indrapura shimmered beneath the fading light of evening, its sandstone domes and high towers catching the last rays of the sun. The city beyond its walls was alive with its usual hum of traders closing shops, the calls of street hawkers, the laughter of children darting through narrow lanes. Yet within the palace, a deeper tension hummed in the air, a silence so thick that even the guards shifted uneasily at their posts.

In the innermost corridor, before the carved teak doors of the birthing chamber, a man paced. His golden crown caught the lamplight, and the ruby at its center glowed like a coal of fire.

Maharaja Samrat Adityavarna Kuru, sovereign of Aryavarta's mightiest kingdom, was not a man accustomed to waiting. On battlefields, his sword decided the pace of war; in court, his words silenced ministers and nobles alike. But tonight, he walked back and forth in restless anticipation, his sandals clicking against the marble, his breath a fraction sharper than usual.

He was in his thirtieth year, tall and broad-shouldered, with the sculpted physique of a warrior forged by discipline. His hair, black and flowing, was clasped neatly at the back of his head. Across his chest lay a blue sash, its silk gleaming against the golden armor molded to his form. A lion's head was engraved on his belt, twin rubies for eyes, marking him both as a warrior and as king. His gaze, usually steady as steel, betrayed an emotion he seldom revealed: vulnerability.

Behind the great doors, muffled voices rose and fell—the hurried commands of midwives, the low hum of prayers whispered by attendants, the rustle of silk as the queen labored within. And then, at last, it came.

A sound sharp, high-pitched, insistent. A newborn's cry.

The king froze mid-step. The sound filled the marble hall, echoing against its pillars. It was raw, unshaped, but alive—vibrant with the force of new life.

The doors opened with a creak, and out stepped a woman in her forties, clad in a crimson sari lined with gold. Her hair, streaked faintly with silver, was tied in a bun, and her bangles jingled softly as she moved. In her arms was a bundle wrapped in deep purple silk, wriggling and crying with all the strength of a new soul.

She bowed low before the Maharaja, her face lit with joy, and declared in a voice that rang through the hall:

"Badhāī ho, Mahārāj! Putra huā hai āpko!"

(Congratulations, Your Majesty! A son has been born to you!)

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Adityavarna's face broke into a rare, unguarded smile. His eyes softened, his steps quickened, and he reached out. The child was placed gently into his arms.

The cries quieted as if the infant recognized the warmth of his father. Small fists trembled in the air, a tuft of dark hair crowned his tiny head, and his face scrunched in protest at the brightness of the world he had just entered.

The Maharaja looked down at his son, pride and wonder stirring within him. He had conquered kingdoms, broken enemy lines, and brought Aryavarta's strongest warriors to heel—but this, this fragile weight in his arms, was the truest victory of all.

He turned to the waiting guards, his voice deep and commanding, carrying through the marble corridors like a drumbeat.

"Announce to the people! A prince is born to the Surya-Kuru Vansh! Let the rajya celebrate this divine blessing!"

Messengers sprinted at once, their sandals slapping the stone as they rushed to the palace gates. A moment later, the blast of conch shells and horns split the air, rolling like thunder across Indrapura.

The city stirred with excitement. Merchants left their stalls to join in the cries of joy. Children darted through the lanes shouting the news. Garlands of marigold appeared above doors, firecrackers sparked, and temple bells rang in every quarter. The dynasty had an heir.

Within the palace, preparations began at once. Drums beat, lamps were lit, and servants carried trays of sweets for distribution to the people. The Maharaja, however, remained still, gazing at his son. He did not speak a name, for tradition forbade it. The child would be blessed first, his destiny read by the wise, and then, in a ceremony sanctified by fire and mantra, the name would be given.

For now, the boy was simply Rajkumar—the prince.

The Arrival of the Rishis

The next morning dawned golden and clear, as though the heavens themselves celebrated with Indrapura. By the first light of sun, lines of saffron-robed figures began to appear at the palace gates. Holy men, sages, and rishis—keepers of wisdom and penance—had journeyed from hermitages and ashrams across the land.

Their arrival was met not with the trumpets of soldiers, but with the low hum of conch shells and the offering of garlands. The Maharaja himself came barefoot to the marble steps, removing his sandals as a gesture of humility. Though he commanded armies, today he bowed to the authority of the spirit.

One by one, the rishis were greeted. Adityavarna bent low and poured sandalwood-scented water over their feet, washing away the dust of their journeys. The water collected in silver basins shimmered with petals of lotus and marigold. The sages lifted their palms in blessing, murmuring mantras that resonated like ancient music in the morning air.

They were led to the palace gardens, where a grand hall of carved pillars had been prepared. Mats of kusha grass lined the marble floor. Copper vessels brimmed with fresh water. The air was thick with incense—camphor, frankincense, and the sweet smoke of ghee lamps.

Here, the Maharaja served them himself. Bowing low, he placed rice, dal, fruits, and clarified butter upon their leaf plates. Ministers watched in silence—some uncomfortable at the sight of their king humbling himself, others quietly admiring his devotion.

When the sages had eaten, they raised their voices in a hymn of blessing. The chant swelled, filling the hall with resonance that seemed to vibrate through the very stone.

The Naamkaran Sanskar

On the second day, the Naamkaran ceremony was held in the palace's innermost sanctum.

A great fire altar had been prepared, its flames steady and golden, fed with ghee and fragrant woods. Around it sat the rishis, their eyes closed in meditation, their lips whispering mantras older than kingdoms.

The infant was brought forth, wrapped in silk, carried by the chief royal priest. His small hands curled and uncurled as if reaching for something unseen. The palace women sprinkled flowers upon his path, and the sound of the veena echoed softly in the chamber.

Maharaja Adityavarna sat nearest the fire, his crown set aside, his head bowed. He was not king now, but a father.

The chief rishi, an elder with a flowing white beard and eyes that glowed with inner fire, rose. His voice carried across the hall, deep and resonant:

"O Maharaja, we have read the stars, the omens, and the destiny written upon this child's soul. He is born beneath signs of power and divine favor. His path will be heavy with trials, yet he shall overcome them with strength unmatched. He will rise to be a king remembered beyond his age."

The rishi turned, lifting the child so that the flames of the yajna fire flickered in his dark eyes.

"From this day forth, he shall be known as Ansh. For within him resides a fragment of the divine—a spark that will guide him, protect him, and command the respect of all."

The chamber trembled with the sound of blessing. The gathered sages raised their palms, chanting in unison, their voices merging into a single, thunderous vibration:

"Ansh… Bhagwān ke Ansh…"

The Maharaja lifted his head. His face glowed with pride, a rare smile softening his warrior's features. He stood, took his son from the rishi's arms, and whispered:

"Ansh… my son, my heir, the pride of the Surya-Kuru Vansh."

Outside, the city exploded with renewed celebration. Firecrackers burst in the streets. Temple bells rang without pause. Drums thundered and the people shouted until the air itself seemed to quake:

"Jai ho Rajkumar Ansh! Long live the prince of Kuru!"

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