I. The Day Vaikuntha Sat Down to Breathe
On most days, Vaikuntha was not what mortals would call "busy," but it was never truly still. There were always rishis arriving in meditation, prayers rising like lamp-flames from the mortal world, petitions from devas, reports from lokas, and the steady hum of dharma being woven and unwoven across countless lives.
But that day was different.
A golden hush lay upon Vaikuntha like a soft shawl.
The sky above the Golden Court glowed with a gentle light, neither dawn nor dusk, but the timeless in-between. Lotus lakes, clear as polished mirrors, held the reflections of endless horizons. The usual breeze that carried the fragrance of parijata blossoms moved a little more slowly, as if it too did not wish to interrupt what was about to happen.
In the center of that expanse lay a wide, circular courtyard, formed of luminous stone that seemed made from solidified starlight. Six thrones were arranged not in a line, but in a circle—no one above, no one below.
That circle was filled.
On one throne sat Brahma, Pitamaha, creator of worlds, his four faces softer than they had appeared in ages. Beside him sat Saraswati Devi, veena resting by her leg, her eyes bright and calm.
On another sat Vishnu, Hari, reclining in his gentle way, eyes half-lidded not from disinterest, but ease. By his side, Lakshmi Devi, Kalyani, poured nectar with the natural familiarity of one who had done this for him since the first kalpa.
Opposite them sat Maheshwara, Shiva, his presence neither fierce nor ascetic today, but simply still—like a mountain at peace. Close to him sat Parvati Devi, Gauri, her expression radiant, the softness of a mother and the strength of Shakti meeting on one face.
Lakshmi tilted the golden pitcher and let the nectar flow into crystal goblets. Her hands moved with the smoothness of habit, but her gaze was not on the cups. It moved across the familiar faces around her, and something like quiet joy flickered there.
"Swami," she said, her voice gentle but carrying in that calm air, "for today, let us not speak of empires rising or falling, of yagnas interrupted or completed. Even the universe should permit its guardians a small holiday."
Vishnu's lips curved, the corners of his eyes creasing faintly.
"Kalyani, if you declare it a holiday, even Time will hesitate to move. Who am I to disagree?"
Saraswati gave a soft laugh, like the very first note of a morning raga.
"Lakshmi Devi speaks truly," she said, turning slightly toward Brahma. "Swami, the scriptures have survived yugas without complaint. They will not weep if you let them rest for a few hours."
Brahma exhaled—something between a sigh and a chuckle.
"Devi, it is not the Vedas who complain. It is the rishis. 'Pitamaha, one more mantra. Pitamaha, one more secret.'" All four faces wore the same resigned fondness. "Today, if I do not answer, I shall tell them, 'Ask Lakshmi and Saraswati to release me from duty first.'"
Parvati's eyes shone with amusement.
"In that case, Pitamaha, you may add Gauri Devi to that list as well," she said lightly. "If any rishi questions you, say that the Tridevi themselves have ordered rest. Even the greatest tapasvis will not argue with three mothers at once."
Maheshwara's gaze moved from face to face, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips.
"Truly, Hari," he said slowly, "our Devis have formed their own council. When such a council commands peace, which among us would dare to refuse?"
Vishnu glanced at Shiva, a knowing glint in his eyes.
"Maheshwara, if Devi Parvati declares this a blessed gathering, even Kailasa cannot object, is it not?"
Parvati's expression softened; the glow in her eyes deepened into something almost childlike in its happiness.
"Naatha," she said, voice lowering with warmth, "how many yugas has it been since we all sat like this? No petitions, no wars, no great vows. Just the six of us. My heart is… very full today."
Shiva inclined his head slightly.
"Devi Parvati," he replied, "when Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva sit with their Devis in harmony, even the possibility of pralaya feels distant. Let this moment be counted among those that lighten the weight of all others."
Lakshmi leaned toward Saraswati, her tone soft but teasing.
"See, Saraswati Devi? If we had left them alone, before the nectar was finished, they would have turned the conversation to dharma, adharma, and the end of the yuga again."
Saraswati smiled, eyes soft.
"Indeed. Left to themselves, they will discuss creation, preservation, and destruction. Left to us, they remember they are more than their roles."
Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva shared a brief glance—something between amusement and quiet acceptance.
"For today," Vishnu said, "let us set aside the titles. No Pitamaha, no Jagannatha, no Mahadeva. Only three brothers and their Devis, for whom the worlds exist."
"And if Narada appears, singing loudly for attention?" Brahma asked dryly.
This time Parvati answered without missing a beat.
"Then, Pitamaha, we shall inform him that Vaikuntha, Kailasa, and Satyaloka are all under mauna vrata for one day. Let him sing to the stars instead."
The laughter that rose then was soft but deep—old, intimate, the sound of those who had watched countless ages pass and still found comfort in one another.
It was in that warmth, in that perfectly divine yet almost human quiet, that the ripple came.
II. The Ripple in the Sea of Samsara
It began as a faint shiver in the air—so small that mortals would never have known it existed. But for those seated in the Golden Court, it was as obvious as thunder.
The nectar in Lakshmi's hand stilled.
Saraswati's fingers stopped just above her veena's strings.
Parvati's head turned, eyes focusing on something beyond the visible.
Vishnu rose slightly from his relaxed posture, eyes sharpening as he looked downward, beyond the shining floors, beyond Vaikuntha itself, toward the unfathomable river of rebirth below.
"Kalyani… Saraswati Devi… did you feel that?"
Maheshwara's gaze turned inward, seeing past and present as easily as mortals blink.
"Yes, Hari. This is not the mere murmur of ordinary karma. This vibration… is old. Very old."
Brahma turned all four faces toward the direction of the tremor, attention narrowing.
"This echo… I have felt its like only once, and that too at the dawn of Satya Yuga."
Lakshmi pressed her hand gently against her chest. The emotion in her voice trembled, though her posture remained composed.
"Swami… this warmth… I know it. I have held this soul before."
Saraswati's fingers curled around the base of her veena.
"Pitamaha," she whispered, "this resonance… once intertwined with my very being."
Parvati stepped toward the edge of the courtyard, her eyes moistening though no tears fell yet.
"Naatha… this… this is the call of a child who has wandered too long and is finally near home."
Shiva closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the ripple speak through silence. When he opened them again, the usual fierce detachment had softened. Love—old, steady, unquestioning—rested there.
"Yes, Devi," Shiva said quietly. "You are not mistaken. The small light trembling below… is the same soul we once created together."
Vishnu's jaw relaxed in a sigh that held both relief and sorrow.
"To return after so many births… even a soul needs courage for that."
Lakshmi inhaled unsteadily.
"He is tired, Swami. I can feel it."
Saraswati added, voice almost a whisper,
"He comes like a child who has walked through storm and dust, afraid to knock on the door he hopes is still his."
Parvati's hands tightened at her sides.
"Then let us not make him stand in the storm, Naatha. Let us remember him. Let us see what paths he has walked, what pain he has carried."
Maheshwara lifted his trident, but lightly, as if moving not a weapon, but a wand of truth.
"Let the memory of the beginning rise," he said softly. "Let us recall how this soul first took shape."
The world around them shifted.
The Golden Court, the lotus lakes, the luminous sky—all dissolved into blinding, seamless light.
III. When the First Soul Was Made
Satya Yuga's earliest breath was not a sound. It was a presence.
There was no earth then. No sky. No sun or moon. Only an endless expanse of soft, luminous white—like the inside of a pearl, like a thought that had not yet become a word.
In that blankness stood the Six.
They did not stand apart. They stood close, as those who shared intention.
Saraswati Devi stepped forward first, veena hovering in the air beside her, its strings silent. Her voice, when she spoke, felt like the first shloka emerging from an invisible scripture.
"Let us craft a soul," she said, "that will uplift humankind. A being who seeks understanding, who values knowledge."
Lakshmi Devi moved next, her radiance livening the whiteness into gold.
"Let his heart be soaked in compassion," she said, "so that where he goes, harshness will soften and kindness will take root."
Parvati Devi joined them, her presence steady as a mountain and gentle as evening light on a river.
"Let him carry courage," she said, her palm hovering above a small point of light that had begun to gather. "Not the courage of pride, but of protection. May he stand between the helpless and the cruel."
Then the Trimurti approached.
Brahma extended his hands, and the very letters of destiny seemed to swirl around his fingers like glowing ink.
"He shall be the first Manu," he proclaimed, "the pillar upon which humanity leans, the one whose conduct shapes the path of those who come after."
Vishnu placed his fingers lightly upon the growing spark.
"Let him carry balance," he said, "so that when the world leans toward one extreme, he remains standing in the middle, anchoring dharma."
Maheshwara's touch was the lightest of all, but it carried the weight of countless endings and beginnings.
"Let him not be frightened of death," Shiva said. "Let him understand that to die is also to return. Fear must not chain him."
Six divine streams poured into the budding spark:
Saraswati's knowledge,
Lakshmi's compassion,
Parvati's courage,
Brahma's creative will,
Vishnu's balancing grace,
Shiva's fearless truth.
They wove together, spiraling, folding, merging.
A soul emerged.
He shone like a small sun in that blank expanse—perfectly formed, radiant, pure in a way no karma had yet touched.
Lakshmi's face brightened.
"Swami, look at him… he glows like the first sunrise over a world yet to be born."
Saraswati's eyes softened, the corners of her lips lifting.
"I can hear hymns inside his silence," she said. "He will not just live—he will understand."
Parvati smiled with a pride that belonged only to mothers.
"See how steady he is? It feels as if he is already ready to walk…"
Then—
A faint line appeared across that radiance.
A crack.
It was almost invisible. Almost nothing.
Almost.
Saraswati's expression tightened.
"Brahma Deva… did you see—?"
The crack spread.
Lakshmi reached for Vishnu's arm.
"Keshava, his light… it shakes."
Parvati's heart clenched, and she stepped forward as if reaching for a stumbling child.
"Naatha, he is struggling—"
The soul jerked.
The perfection they had poured into him—the title of First Manu, the weight of being example and foundation, of holding the ideal of humanity in his very essence—pressed inward like invisible mountains.
Brahma's face grew grave.
"He cannot bear the load," he said. "His structure is too new—"
Vishnu's hands moved quickly, trying to soothe the imbalance, to ease the strain.
"Steady, child," he murmured, though the soul could not yet hear. "You are not yet meant to carry all this."
Maheshwara tried to peel back the intensity of the divine charge, but the forces already woven were not so easily undone.
The Tridevi cupped their hands around the trembling soul, pouring love into the cracks, trying to hold him together with the kind of strength that had nothing to do with power.
It was not enough.
The soul shattered.
Light burst in all directions—shards flying through the whiteness, dissolving into the fabric of potential reality.
Lakshmi's cry was soft, but it held the ache of entire civilizations.
"We… we crushed him with our expectations…"
Saraswati's eyes shone with tears. A single drop fell, and where it landed in the blankness, sound was born.
"We gave him perfection, but not time to grow into it…"
Parvati held the fading wisps in trembling palms. They slipped through her fingers like mist.
"My child…" she whispered, "…forgive us…"
The Trimurti bowed their heads—not as gods, but as fathers who had understood too late.
At last, Brahma spoke, voice low.
"We erred."
Vishnu nodded slowly.
"Let us remove his mantle of Manu."
Maheshwara's gaze grew firm with resolve.
"Let us strip away his destiny and allow him to live first as he chooses."
The Devis dried their tears. This time, their touch was gentler, careful not to overload, not to define.
Saraswati placed a fingertip upon the tiniest remnant of light that remained.
"Let him learn at his own pace."
Lakshmi cupped it with both hands.
"Let him love in his own way."
Parvati brought it close to her heart.
"Let him grow free of chains we put upon him."
The Trimurti added no titles this time. No labels like "Manu" or "first of men."
They simply allowed the fragment to condense into a small, fragile human soul—ordinary to all appearances, yet born from a mistake none of them would ever forget.
That soul drifted into the river of samsara.
And began to live.
IV. The Life of a Simple Boy
The shimmering memory faded.
The Golden Court re-formed around them, lotus lakes shimmering back into existence, the gentle stillness returning.
Only the small, trembling soul below remained unchanged.
Parvati's voice was very soft now.
"Swami… Naatha… shall we see how he lived in his last birth?"
Vishnu lifted his hand, and the Akashic Mirror unfolded—not a lifeless recording, but a window into experiences, feelings, choices.
The Tridevi leaned forward.
They saw a small house in a town, warm but modest. They saw a woman with tired eyes but a tender touch, a father with worries hidden behind a firm tone, and between them, a child—crying loudly at birth, then quiet when held.
Lakshmi's lips curved, a hint of joy coloring her expression.
"Keshava… he was born into a home with love. That itself is a blessing."
They watched him grow.
As a little boy, he ran barefoot with friends, scraped his knees, fought over silly things, shared half-eaten snacks. He often hid inside when his mother called him to study, sneaking behind doors with comic books.
Saraswati's eyes sparkled faintly despite the heaviness of the moment.
"He avoided his homework now and then," she said, "but when someone explained to him kindly, he tried. His mind was not brilliant, but… it was open."
In school, he wasn't the topper. Sometimes he barely passed. He was scolded, sometimes shrugged it off, sometimes cried when no one saw. He loved stories—mythology, superhero comics, web novels. He'd talk about them eagerly with his friends, eyes shining as if the worlds inside those pages were more real than the classroom.
Parvati's heart warmed.
"He escaped into stories when the real world felt difficult. That is not weakness… only a kind of searching."
They saw teenage years.
He occasionally lied to cover unfinished work. He also defended a friend when others mocked him. He argued with his parents, then felt guilty afterward. He stayed up late watching movies, woke up late and was scolded, sometimes answered back, then later apologized clumsily.
Lakshmi murmured,
"He was not saintly, but he was honest in his own way about his flaws. When he hurt someone, he did not rest easy."
They watched him grow older. Friends gathered around him not because he was the most successful or popular, but because he listened when they spoke of their problems. He made jokes to lighten their moods. Sometimes he got carried away and hurt someone's feelings; later, he would sit alone wondering how to fix it.
Then his first job.
A modest salary. Nothing grand. Yet when he received it, he stood for a long moment staring at the amount on the slip, then quietly decided something.
They saw him go to a temple town. His mother told him, "Place your first earnings in the hundi of Lord Venkateswara." He nodded. But instead of dropping the full amount there, he mentioned the Lord's name and carried that money to a small, old orphanage.
He donated it in secret, telling no one at home.
Lakshmi's eyes filled again, this time with luminous tears.
"He took my Lord's name and gave where it was needed most," she whispered. "What greater offering is there?"
They watched him visit that orphanage now and then. Not every week. Not with extreme discipline. But when time allowed, when his own tiredness didn't completely overcome him, he went. He played with the children, listened to them, bought small sweets when he could.
Saraswati spoke softly.
"He had many distractions. He wasted time also. And yet… when a chance to do good came into his small circle of ability, he did not turn away."
He loved movies, anime, web novels, superhero films—especially those of a certain glimmering, hero-filled universe. He'd come out of cinemas energized, imagining worlds where courage and sacrifice mattered, where flawed heroes still stood up.
"When he admired heroes, he admired their willingness to stand firm," Shiva observed quietly. "Not their glory."
They saw more fragments—arguments with parents; quiet guilt afterward; small acts of care like massaging his mother's feet when she was tired, or taking over a chore his father usually did, without announcing it.
He was preparing for a new stage of life—
family talking of marriage,
a meeting arranged,
hopes forming,
nervousness, curiosity.
Then—
Night.
A road.
A truck.
He saw the lights too late.
The impact came brutally fast.
In that suspended moment between life and death, the gods heard his thoughts as clearly as if he shouted them in the Golden Court:
"Ah… so this is that truck thing from anime. It really hurts…"
A flash of bitter humor. Then pain.
"Amma… Nana… I didn't do enough…"
Guilt, heavy and fierce.
"Little brother is there… he will take care of them… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
His body fell.
His final breath left him still reaching inside, trying to apologize.
Parvati's tears fell unchecked now, shining like rain.
"Naatha," she whispered, voice breaking, "even at the end… he did not think 'why me'. He only thought, 'I have not repaid my parents enough.'"
Lakshmi pressed her fingers to her lips.
"He never asked for moksha," she murmured. "He never cursed fate. He only worried whether his duty as a son was complete."
Saraswati's throat tightened.
"He was not sagely. He did not live a life of strict tapas. But in the circle that was given to him, he tried, slipped, tried again. That sincerity… very few achieve."
The Akashic Mirror dimmed.
The images faded.
But the impression of that simple, flawed, kind-hearted life remained in all their hearts.
V. The Gods Judge Their Child
For a few moments, none of them spoke.
Then Lakshmi exhaled slowly.
"Swami," she said, looking at Vishnu but speaking softly enough that all heard, "he was not the greatest saint. He did not awaken some grand spiritual power. But… wherever his small, ordinary hands could reach to do good, he did not pull them back."
Vishnu nodded slowly.
"Not all brightness is in great auras," he said. "Some is in how a man behaves when no one is watching him."
Saraswati added,
"He was not free of laziness or distraction. He was not a flawless student. But he never delighted in cruelty. And when he saw someone struggle near him, his first instinct was to step toward them, not away."
Parvati, wiping her tears, gave a small, watery smile.
"He scolded himself when he failed. He laughed with his friends sincerely. He was selfish in small ways, unselfish in others. In truth… he was human."
Brahma lifted one hand thoughtfully.
"In all his births, he has not been a rishi, nor a great king, nor a legendary warrior," he said. "Yet in life after life, a pattern appears—small, quiet acts of goodness. Not enough to be sung about… but enough that they stack like unnoticed lamps in the dark."
Maheshwara inclined his head.
"And he has carried our early mistake far from his memory," Shiva mused, "yet its echo remained—the longing to do better than he is. The sense of not being enough. That burden was ours, not his… and yet he bore it without knowing."
Lakshmi glanced at Parvati and Saraswati, and what passed between the three was less a look and more a silent vow.
"Swami," Lakshmi said suddenly, a thread of determination entering her voice, "in his last life, was his heart drawn not strongly toward one particular world of stories?"
Vishnu's eyes glimmered with understanding.
"Yes. Again and again, he returned to a realm of heroes and gods, of wars among stars and on Earth, of strange powers and secret societies… he admired it deeply."
Saraswati was thoughtful.
"He watched their movies, read their tales, followed their characters. His imagination lingered there far longer than in his own world."
Parvati smiled faintly.
"Then perhaps, in his next birth, that shall not just be a story to him."
VI. Bhishma's Shadow, Without Bhishma's Chains
Vishnu lifted his hand again, and a different set of memories unfolded—not of the boy's acts, but of what stirred his heart when he read and watched.
They saw him as a teenager, reading the Mahabharata. His expression changed when Bhishma Pitamaha appeared—pride, admiration, a certain melancholy.
They heard his quiet thought:
"If only Pitamaha had been less rigid… less bound by vows… he might have been the greatest of all."
Brahma nodded slowly.
"He respected Bhishma's strength and purity… but grieved his painful destiny."
Saraswati added,
"He admired the wisdom, but did not agree with every choice."
Parvati's gaze softened.
"In his heart, he thought: 'If such strength and such nobility existed, without such chains… how great would that soul be.'"
Maheshwara's voice flowed like a calm river.
"Then let us answer that thought. Let us give him a path that holds Bhishma's blessings… without Bhishma's sorrow."
Lakshmi smiled through her lingering tears.
"Yes. Let him have Ichha-Marana—the power to choose his end—but not the vow of celibacy, nor binding oaths that break his own heart."
Saraswati nodded.
"Let him hold clarity in battle and wisdom in counsel, but let his mind remain open, not trapped by rigid interpretations."
Parvati added firmly,
"Let him have loyalty, but to dharma as living truth, not to words spoken in youth and carried like chains unto death."
Brahma raised his hand, and glowing script appeared in the air—nine phases, written in brilliant lines of possibility:
Infancy with aura-sensitivity and vitality.
Childhood with pranic awareness and intuition.
Adolescence with battle foresight and Ichha-Marana.
Kingship with authority and mystic arts.
Immortal rebellion with asura-like might.
Shadow centuries, invisible yet always learning.
Cosmic guardian in a new heroic era.
Partial Manu-like awareness.
Finally, a human-god equilibrium—if he chose to reach it.
Vishnu looked over the pattern and nodded.
"Let these not be given all at once," he said. "Let them be seeds. He must choose, strive, grow. No destiny should ever crush him again."
Maheshwara agreed.
"Power without effort becomes another burden. Let his path be difficult but honest."
Parvati raised a finger with gentle insistence.
"And this time, we do not neglect his heart. Enough of lonely duties and unfinished love stories."
Lakshmi laughed softly, the sound warm.
"Agreed. A child of ours should not have to learn only from sorrow."
Saraswati's eyes softened.
"In this new life, may friendships, love, and family not be denied to him."
VII. Choosing His Next Horizon
The universe unfolded before them like a great, luminous map. Countless branches of reality, each its own cosmos, shimmered as points of light.
One universe flickered more than others.
It was strange, dense, crowded with entangled fates—where gods walked as men and men reached toward the realm of gods. A world of technology brushing against magic, of secret orders, hidden relics, ancient lineages, and new heroes. A world already watched by other cosmic beings, on the borderlands of what the Trimurti normally touched.
Lakshmi spoke first.
"In his last life, he loved this universe's stories—their heroes, their flawed struggles, their victories."
Vishnu's gaze deepened.
"This universe stands close to the boundary of those we do not command. Many forces there move without our direct hand. Yet… it wavers. It teeters between great darkness and great possibility."
Saraswati nodded.
"He admired it not because it was easy, but because its heroes struggled and still rose."
Maheshwara stroked the haft of his trident lightly.
"Such a world is dangerous… but also rich with potential. If he must grow beyond all we first imagined for him, a place where many currents collide may be… fitting."
Parvati looked down at the trembling soul, then up at that shining universe.
"He will be tested there," she said quietly. "But he will not be alone. Many threads of divinity, human and other, already move there. If he wishes to break free from the wheel entirely, perhaps that is where it can happen."
Brahma closed his four eyes briefly, then opened them with decision.
"Then let it be so. We once burdened him without asking. This time, we offer a difficult path, but also the tools to walk it."
Lakshmi brought her hands together in a namaskara facing the small soul.
"Child," she said softly, "you loved that universe as a spectator. Go there now as its actor."
Saraswati smiled gently.
"May your mind be open, your heart sincere, your learning continuous."
Parvati's eyes shone with both love and warning.
"You will bleed. You will cry. You will laugh. You will love. But you will not walk without guidance, even if you cannot always see us."
Vishnu raised his palm in benediction.
"Grow into one who stands between worlds, not for glory, but for balance."
Brahma added,
"Write your story anew, without the weight of a title you never chose."
Maheshwara lowered his gaze in blessing.
"And when all is done, if you choose to lay down all burdens, may no chain—ours or yours—hold you back."
The trembling soul below brightened in response, as if some very deep part of it heard and understood.
VIII. The Fall Toward Destiny
"Then it is decided," Brahma said quietly.
He lifted his hand.
The small soul, once shattered and scattered, now whole and trembling but steadying, rose gently and then turned—drawn toward that chosen universe, toward a blue-white world where the 19th century would soon blaze with revolt and empire, myth and gunpowder, dharma and deception.
Toward a specific land.
Toward a specific region.
Toward a house where ancestors prayed for a son strong enough to protect their people.
The Tridevi watched him go, tears in their eyes, but no regret this time—only fierce, protective love and cautious hope.
Lakshmi whispered,
"Grow in goodness."
Saraswati murmured,
"Grow in understanding."
Parvati whispered like a blessing over a newborn's forehead,
"Grow in courage, my child."
Vishnu added,
"Walk the middle path, even when the world does not."
Brahma said,
"Shape your fate."
Maheshwara, last of all, spoke in a tone quiet enough to calm storms.
"And remember—though you will not recall our faces, our hands will not leave your back."
The soul streaked like a tiny comet, vanishing from Vaikuntha's sight.
Far below, in a land the British would call India and the people would call Bharata, in the rocky heartlands of the south, a woman of the Uyyalawada line would soon dream of tigers and fire and a child wrapped in starlight.
And in that dream, all six would smile.
The story of the one who was almost a Manu, then became just a boy, and now would rise as something else entirely—
had finally, truly,
begun.