God of War - Karmic Cycle [AU]

[juniorsundar]

Murugan stood before the temple.

It was a simple structure, fashioned entirely from dark, weathered wood, and sat at the very heart of the village. It was completely unlike the rest of the buildings in the village, which were aged and made primarily of mud.

It lacked the grandeur of other temples he knew in Bhuloka, most of which expressed impossible architectures and sometimes boasted an excessive glut of gleaming gold. Yet, as his eyes traced the carefully carved posts and the neatly joined beams, he could feel the sincerity that had gone into the construction of this comparatively quaint one. It was a place built of affection, not wealth.

And unlike most temples he had seen in the land of mortals, this one was open. Its entrance was unassumingly inviting, allowing any passersby to see right into the altar without any interruption.

His gaze passed through the wide-open entrance easily and fell upon the two idols housed within - made entirely out of common clay. The figures weren't particularly evocative or precise. They looked like bulges with a faint outline of figures oozing out. But their design was sufficient to spark clarity to any common observer.

The first was of a powerfully built man. His head was bald, and his entire form was coated in a chalky layer of ash. A crimson line bisected his face and abdomen like an unusual birthmark. In his arms, he cradled a fearsome-looking axe. Though basic in design, it carried all the required symbols that allowed a common observer to identify that it was, in fact, Murugan's Guru - Kratos.

Beside Kratos stood the second idol, and it was this one that made him cringe.

It was an equally rudimentary statue moulded from river clay and baked in the sun. It depicted a young boy, barely a man, with a face that was more an impression of youth than a true likeness. The lines were soft and curvaceous, and the features were imperfect, but the artist had spent considerable time on the eyes, giving them a sharp, determined look. In the idol's hand was a long spear, which was, once again, all that he needed to know that it was an idol of someone he was familiar with.

It was him.

As if on cue, the last of the morning worshippers began to file out of the temple. Their eyes fell upon him, and a wave of recognition, followed by awe, passed through the small crowd. Men and women, many with tints of grey blotching their hair and the deep lines borne of age etched into their faces, bowed their heads. A few spontaneously prostrated themselves on the dusty ground before him. This inversion of respect felt wrong. Deeply wrong.

He was taught that age commanded reverence. Yet here he was, with barely a few decades to his name - even with the irregularity of the flow of time in Kailasha - forced to accept overflowing reverence from those more than twice his age.

Without wasting another moment, Murugan extricated himself from the unnerving tableau and turned his back on the display of devotion. He beelined towards his true destination: the second-largest dwelling in the village. It was a humble hut with walls made of neat mud bricks and capped with a thick thatch roof that smelled of dry grass and sunlight.

He knocked on the heavy wooden door. The sound, a dull thud, reverberated amidst the quiet air. He waited, and a moment later, the door peeked open.

A pair of familiar, kohl-lined eyes met his for a fleeting second before widening in panic. The door slammed shut. He heard the patter of bare feet rapidly receding into the house.

A quiet smile touched Murugan's lips.

Within moments, the door swung open again. The Village Chief stood in the threshold. His face twitched with a smile of flustered apology. His eyes were wide as he took in his visitor, and his body began to instinctively fold. His hands came together as he prepared to prostrate himself, but Murugan moved faster. He closed the distance in a single step and placed a firm, yet gentle, hand on the older man's shoulder to halt his descent.

"Please," Murugan pleaded with a low voice. "Don't put me in this awkward position, Father-in-law."

The Chief choked at the designation, and he descended into a violent fit of coughing. It started as a seemingly simple clearing of the throat, but progressively descended into a racking spasm that shook his entire frame.

It went on and on, stretching past the point of polite recovery and into the territory of genuine distress. The sound was alarming enough that a woman, the Chief's wife, peeked out from the kitchen area with an expression that was creased with concern.

Seeing the scene, she rushed out while wiping her hands on a cloth tucked into her waist. She gave Murugan an apologetic smile before pulling her still-spluttering husband away from the doorway, guiding him to a small wooden stool.

Once the man's coughing had finally subsided into ragged breaths, he looked up at Murugan with reddened, watering eyes. "M-My Lord," he rasped with a tremble in his voice. "I fear I misheard you."

As he spoke, the Chief's head darted involuntarily to his left. Murugan's gaze followed. From behind the kitchen doorway, a young woman peeked out. Her face was tinted a fetching shade of crimson. As her eyes met her father's and jumped over to meet Murugan's, she quickly bolted in like a fleeing rabbit scurrying into its burrow.

Murugan chuckled softly at the display. He brought the simple cloth bag hanging from his shoulder forward. He placed it on the packed earth floor and slowly untied its knot. From within, he revealed two bronze statues. He placed them carefully in front of the Chief and his wife before sitting back on his heels to wait.

All eyes in the small hut focused on the inanimate objects. An extended silence prevailed, thick with confusion. The Chief leaned toward his wife and whispered, "What's going on? I feel I am missing something."

His wife did not answer. She narrowed her gaze and inspected the statues closely. They depicted a man and a woman. Their design appeared similar to the ones she'd heard of in the massive temples from the cities, in their attention to detail. It was uncanny, because in a way, they looked almost real - like two miniaturised humans coated in bronze. She looked even closer and started to match their appearance with fragments in her memory. It took a moment, but a flicker of understanding began to dawn on her face. Her eyes widened. Before she knew what she was doing, her body collapsed into a fully prostrated state before the two bronze figures. The Chief stared in shock at her reaction. His own inspection followed, and a moment later, he too fell to the floor beside her.

"You are putting us in an awkward position, dear in-laws."

A gentle voice spoke in a calm, resonant baritone that seemed to fill the small hut.

"In this juncture, we are your equals. Would you prefer that we prostrate ourselves before you?"

Those words were enough to make the Chief and his wife jump to their feet in terror. They immediately collapsed again onto their knees with their arms crossed tightly against their chests. Their shoulders were hunched over, and their gazes were locked on the floor. They tried their best to avoid looking at the bronze statues altogether.

"Though it is customary for parents to meet for such an event, regretfully, my parents cannot so easily leave our abode," Murugan explained calmly into the tense silence. "But these statues will act as a conduit. Please, you may talk to them as if you are talking to my parents directly."

The Chief and his wife rapidly bobbed their heads in understanding. But they remained resolutely and fearfully mute.

Seeing their lack of response, another voice spoke up. This one belonged to a woman. It was mellow and pleasant, and flowed in a methodical and measured tempo that seemed to emanate calmness.

"Are you dissatisfied with our son?" The question felt genuine and carried a distinct undertone of disappointment.

The two mortals immediately raised their gazes and shook their hands in frantic disagreement. They saw the two bronze figures now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Murugan. The statues were noticeably smaller than him, which created a humorous dissonance. Though the couple quickly contained their amusement.

"Please do not misunderstand us, Goddess," the Chief's wife finally managed to say. "It's just that… we feel inadequate."

"What is there to feel inadequate about?" the statue of the Goddess Parvathy spoke with a warm tone. "You have raised a filial and confident daughter. Her accomplishment and character are a testament to your commendable upbringing."

"But we are mere mortals, O Goddess," the Chief expressed with a difficult smile. "We cannot deign to place ourselves even in the same sentence as your greatness. We would be tarnishing the opulence of the great Mount Kailasha by sending our daughter there. And it would be an affront to Lord Murugan's reputation to be affiliated with our kind through matrimony. We are jungle dwellers. We are the lowest of the low."

"You need not speak on our behalf," the statue of the Great God Shiva spoke. His voice cut through the Chief's self-deprecation. The bronze head shook slightly. "We would not be here if any of the reasons you listed mattered to us. Rather than beating around the bush, I would like to get to the crux of the matter. What is the true reason for your apprehension? If it is a shortcoming on our son's part-"

The couple once again interjected by vehemently shaking their hands. After taking a moment to centre himself, the Chief spoke cautiously. "We worry about her future, O Great God. It is true that we are mortals and you are gods. Our lives are short. She will watch herself grow old while Lord Murugan remains as youthful as the day they married. What then? And what of her children? Will she even be able to raise a family? Marriage is supposed to be between families that are equals. But we are not equal. We aren't even in the same realm."

At this point, Murugan stepped in. "You need not worry about her future, father-in-law. Marriage is a sacred bond. For us, it is not just limited to one life. We are bound for eternity. Even if Valli passes before I do, we shall find each other in her next life. It is fate. In fact, my mother was not born a god either."

The statue of Lord Shiva cut in, "What my son is trying to say in all his excitement is that you need not preoccupy yourself with your daughter's future. We are confident in the way we raised him, and we can give you our word that he will keep your daughter happy. And if that doesn't offer you peace of mind, know this."

The statue's voice grew deeper and took on a dangerous edge that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the hut. "Once she joins our family, she becomes one of my people. And for me, nothing matters more than my people."

The Chief and his wife quivered. The Lord's words, though meant to be comforting, were not received that way. To them, the unshakeable declaration sent a primal shiver down their spines. Their bodies involuntarily froze in place.

The Lord was infamous for his rage. Legends claimed that once, upon losing his beloved, he had nearly caused the world itself to end as he danced his fury and sorrow away. A power of such magnitude was unfathomable for the Chief and his wife. And it brought them comfort, knowing that their daughter would be backed by a being of such calibre.

"So," Goddess Parvathy interjected. "If you aren't opposed to the prospect of this matrimony, why don't we proceed with the formalities. Actually, we are here today to meet your daughter. All we know of her is from Murugan's recounting."

The Chief nodded slowly. His movements were still stiff with lingering fear. He swallowed hard and called out with a voice that was barely more than a croak, "Valli!"

The name had hardly left his lips when a blur of motion resolved itself beside them. Valli was suddenly there, and with such swiftness that it felt as if she had teleported from the kitchen. She was practically vibrating with excitement. Her hands were clasped together, and her eyes were wide with a joy that bordered on incandescent. A broad, unrestrained smile lit up her face, which was in stark and almost comical contrast to the rigid terror that held her parents captive.

The Chief and his wife stared, dumbfounded. The palpable tension, which was thick enough to cut with a knife, that hung in the air just moments before seemed to simply evaporate in the face of their daughter's sheer and unadulterated delight.

It also became glaringly apparent that a very different conversation had transpired between the two youngsters prior to this formal meeting. In that moment, the Chief and his wife understood with perfect clarity. They were the only two people in the hut who were not already part of the "conspiracy". They were essentially an audience in the final act of this apparent farce of a negotiation.

But they did not feel affronted or angry upon realising this. The two shared a warm smile as they observed their daughter and Lord Murugan exchanging furtive glances.

Youthful love was a universal panacea for the heart. It was innocent, uplifting and pure.

---

Murugan's marriage ceremony began as the sun dipped below the treeline, as a relatively simple affair steeped in the ancient traditions of Valli's tribe. The occasion had come together so quickly that there had been little time for formal invitations. The entire village gathered around the ceremonial fire with their faces lit in its warm glow - they were the only mortals in attendance.

The groom's party was smaller still. Murugan did not want a large gathering. He was content with the presence of his immediate family, though his parents could not appear in person; their bronze miniature facsimiles were present. His brother was not restricted as such, and he gladly catered for the entire occasion. Murugan had also invited his Guru. Kratos was not entirely absent, having appeared before the main ceremony to offer a curt but sincere blessing. His low rumble of a congratulation overlaid on a gruff growl was fleeting. And as the rites began, the ashen-skinned man made himself scarce. Murugan could see him now and then. He caught the visual of a hulking shadow at the periphery of the firelight - his Guru was always observing but never truly joining the celebration.

The sight of his stoic guru and his teary-eyed in-laws only reinforced Murugan's own perspective on the proceedings. In that, he cared little for the procedure.

To him, it was a mere motion for the community to witness. In his mind, he and Valli were already married the moment their families had agreed. Nonetheless, he knew these rites mattered deeply to Valli's parents, and since it caused him no real inconvenience, he sat through it all with dutiful patience. He felt the coarse, woven cord of sacred grass being tied around his wrist, mirroring the one on Valli's, and listened as his father-in-law chanted blessings to the spirits of the forest. The man's voice grew raspier as the event progressed, as exhaustion, both physical and emotional, started to affect him.

When at last the Chief officiated the final rite, declaring them husband and wife in the presence of all the realms, Murugan's patience was rewarded. He did not wait for the feasting to begin. A wide smile broke across his face as he called down his great peacock. With its iridescent feathers shimmering in the firelight, he swiftly carried his wife away into the twilight sky, towards the distant, snow-capped peaks of Kailasha.

---

Kratos had anticipated that the boy would take a few more days after his marriage to resume his training. So he was shocked to see Murugan standing at the ready outside his dwelling the very next morning, before the sun had even fully crested the mountains.

"You should be with your wife," Kratos said offhandedly. His voice was a low grumble as he faced his student on the doorstep of his temporary home.

"I promised you that I wouldn't let this detour waylay our progress, Guruji," Murugan expressed solemnly. "And I hate stopping once I've set out to do something."

Kratos scanned the boy for a long moment. He saw no hint of falsehood or reluctance, just the same, steady resolve. With a curt nod, he stepped aside and let him in.

"So what do we cover today, Guruji?" Murugan asked excitedly. He sat down on a simple wooden stool opposite his Master's bedding.

"Today, we reflect," Kratos stated with finality in his tone that left no room for argument.

"Reflect?" Murugan mumbled in confusion.

"We look back at the conflict. We identify points of failure and areas for improvement," Kratos explained. "If we do not reflect, we do not learn. If we do not learn, we do not improve."

Murugan nodded with furrowed brows. He began to recount the events from the moment he was called to the village. In his mind, he replayed each decision.

"Knowing just how weak the Chieftain was, we could have performed a decapitation strike," Murugan surmised. "We could have ended it quickly."

"That is only in hindsight," Kratos denied flatly. "You can make that call now because you know the outcome. If you did not know and made that call, it would have been recklessness."

"I understand that, I do," Murugan reasoned, leaning forward. "But the gap in our strength was so wide. I felt we were overestimating them every step of the way. I saw how you handled their army, Guruji. They were of no challenge to you at all. If we had confronted the barbarians from the very beginning, we could have whittled them down completely without losing a single person from the village."

"And then the next time an army like this comes knocking, those villagers will call on you. They will expect you to expel the attackers again," Kratos completed the boy's line of thought. He fixed Murugan with an intense stare. "What kind of god do you want to be?"

"I… I don't understand the question," Murugan stuttered.

"There is never an end to people's requests," Kratos stated plainly. "People will keep wanting because that is their nature. If you give in to their every want, there will never be an end to it. You will be taken for granted."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "Instead, if you give them what they need, but at a cost they understand, then people will think carefully before turning to you. Only those who are truly desperate will seek your assistance."

"That feels wrong," Murugan argued, his voice firm. "We would be forcing people to make a sacrifice when it is not even necessary. Isn't showing their devotion enough?"

"Devotion is the cost of gaining your attention," Kratos corrected. "What comes after is a whole other matter."

"Victory gained without a cost is fleeting," Kratos declared. "It is meaningless. A victory that is not valued is not remembered, and the lessons it teaches are forgotten. Even if the cost is ceremonial, it is necessary."

Kratos's words gave Murugan pause. His Guruji's and his father's strategy towards aiding devotees formed an interesting overlap in his mind. In a way, they were both similar and different. His father was indiscriminate in the way he offered his aid to people as long as their devotion was true, often with explosive and unforeseen consequences - the Barbarian Chieftain being a recent and relevant example of this. His Guruji, equally, did not discriminate. But he emphasised the need for an equivalent exchange, a price for a prize. Devotion was not enough.

"What if I were to help everyone equally?" Murugan probed, a new thought taking shape. "Not personally, but maybe by granting them the power to achieve victory themselves?"

Kratos remained silent for a moment, his gaze unblinking. "You wish to arm them?"

"Not with weapons," Murugan clarified. "With knowledge. With strength. So they do not have to rely on me or any other god."

"And what happens when one man you have strengthened decides he wants his neighbour's land?" Kratos asked. "What happens when he uses the power you gave him not to defend his home, but to take another person's home? You would not be solving their problems. You would be giving them stronger tools to create new ones."

"I will ask you again, what kind of god do you want to be? It is clear that you are not an apathetic god, so offering help to those who worship you is something that you will do. So this dilemma is something that you will face sooner rather than later," Kratos reiterated. "There is no right answer here, just the answer that will allow you to sleep through the night."

"This... is giving me a lot to think about," Murugan muttered in thought.

---

That night, ironically, Murugan struggled to find sleep. The conversation with his Guru echoed relentlessly in his mind. Which was dissonant to the quiet breathing of his new wife beside him. He shifted his weight for the tenth time, and the loud rustle of the bedding crackled in the stillness of their room.

"Having trouble sleeping?" Valli's voice spoke up in a soft murmur from beside him.

Murugan froze. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"Yes," she responded instantly. There was no accusation in her tone, only fact. It was a quality Murugan was quickly coming to appreciate. Her bluntness was refreshing. Although some friction is necessary for a successful relationship, it shouldn't be present in the communication channels.

Although Murugan loved his mother dearly, her tendency to speak around an issue rather than through it often led to drawn-out misunderstandings that could have been solved with a single, honest sentence. Valli did not deal in subtext.

"You are turning too frequently," she complained through a yawn. "If there is something on your mind, why don't you share it? Maybe I can help."

Murugan was quiet for a moment as he considered her offer. He then turned to face her silhouette in the dim light. "What if," he began, "and I truly mean this as a hypothetical… what if the elders from your tribe did not have to die?"

"What do you mean?" Valli asked with a hint of grogginess in her voice.

"What if we could have defeated the barbarians without the loss of a single life from your village?" Murugan clarified.

There was a pause before she answered. "That would have been amazing," she said. At this point, her voice sounded more awake. "But it would have felt hollow."

That was not the answer he expected. Murugan rolled onto his side to face her fully. "Hollow?"

"I know that you and your Guru could have annihilated the barbarian army singlehandedly," Valli stated. "I saw it. We all did. But you didn't do that."

"Do you resent us for that?" he asked cautiously. This was the question that had been lurking beneath the surface of his thoughts all day.

"Not at all," she said without hesitation. "Well, I did think about it for a while. I thought about how unfair it seemed that such a steep sacrifice was necessary when you held so much power. But the more I thought, the more I realised it was not unfair at all. The alternative was the complete destruction of our village. Compared to that, our loss was a victory."

"But as you said, it was a sacrifice that was not truly necessary," Murugan pressed.

"Of course it was necessary," Valli countered firmly. "Without it, we would not have understood the price of our safety. We would have seen your power as a simple solution - a tool to be called upon without thought. We would have taken your assistance for granted."

"But doesn't that defeat the purpose of worshipping gods?" Murugan probed, genuinely curious. "To ask for aid in times of need?"

"Devotion from a believer is not something that must be rewarded. It is the believer's choice and duty," Valli corrected gently. "My father always says that it is our choice to pray and worship. And if it is something we choose to do, then we must do it at all times, in happiness and in sorrow. It is how we build a relationship with higher beings. But we understand this relationship is one-sided. To expect the gods to solve our problems without a cost would be to take advantage of that bond. What you did, exacting a cost for your aid, fits with our beliefs. It honours the sacrifice, and it honours the gods."

Valli's words struck a chord deep within him.

Like puzzle pieces falling into place, the answer to the question his Guru had asked him became vivid and clear.

Murugan couldn't be like his father. He couldn't dissociate himself from the consequences of his actions by letting the universe self-correct itself. Nor could he dissociate himself from the problem itself by treating it as a transactional interaction.

The former was like a careless parent, and the latter was like a distant merchant. As always, the right answer was somewhere in between.

The kind of god Murugan wanted to be was a protector, a guide.

It was not about solving problems from up high or exacting a toll, but just about being present. It was about sharing in the cost and understanding their struggle, not as a transaction, but as a shared experience.

He would not just give them the strength to fight their battles; he would show them how to be strong.

It would be difficult. It would be involved. Not everyone would appreciate it. But that was okay! Because as his wife had rightly surmised, gods were, in a way... human.

"You have helped me," he whispered back with gratitude overflowing in his voice.

She hummed sleepily as she shifted closer. "Good. Now you can finally be quiet so I can sleep."

A chuckle escaped Murugan as he embraced her tightly and closed his eyes.

 

[juniorsundar]

King Dasharatha was a man of his word. It was a lesson his father had drilled into him from a young age: "A sovereign's word is the currency of his realm. When he spends it on lies and broken promises, he devalues himself until his pronouncements are worthless."

This personal mandate had yielded the King many victories and had cemented his kingdom as an unshakeable powerhouse in the region. His subjects revered him. His enemies feared him. And his kingdom had entered a golden age of development with no end in sight.

However, this mandate wasn't without personal costs. Because often, truths can be poisonous.

King Dasharatha had many wives, yet no children. The King wasn't impotent, nor was he celibate. The fact was that his bouts of intimacy often resulted in failure upon remembering a curse laid upon him in his youth.

"You apologise, but you cannot fathom our pain. If there is a god in this forsaken world, then there will be justice. We curse you, oh Young Prince, to feel the same pain of parting we feel right now. The pain only a parent can feel when they are forced to separate from their beloved child."

Those were the final words of the blind old couple as they died, broken-hearted, beside the body of their son.

Dasharatha didn't have to tell them that he had mistaken their son for a deer and had accidentally shot him through the heart. But that wasn't how he was raised.

And now, every time he indulged in intimacy with his many wives, at the peak of ecstasy, his mind would revert to those words.

Just like every mortal, King Dasharatha was fearful of his mortality. No one wanted to die. And the shroud of death wasn't exactly an aphrodisiac.

Nonetheless, a Kingdom without a successor was doomed to fall. And King Dasharatha did not want his ancestral lineage to end with him.

Ultimately, he decided, with the approval from the court's Chief Priest, to conduct a Putrakameshti Yagna. It was a powerful fire ritual designed to please the gods and seek their blessings for progeny.

As a Kshatriya, propagating his lineage was his Dharma, and to turn to the gods to accomplish it for him meant that the ritual would have to be increasingly complex. To that end, King Dasharatha spared no expense. His wealth flowed like the river Ganga as he prepared everything necessary for his Yagna. He even invited the revered Sage Rishyashringa to preside over the ceremony.

On the chosen auspicious date, the King initiated his Yagna.

Due to its complexity, it wasn't something that could be completed within a day. Its conclusion could only be ordained by the very gods to whom the prayer was offered.

On the fifth day, the Sage stopped. The fire rapidly changed colours. It switched from an austere red flame to a piercing blue flame. The heat it emanated escalated as it transitioned through the shades before it settled into a translucent hue.

Then, the fire grew and burgeoned rapidly. The King and the various priests partaking in the ceremony retreated rapidly as the entire altar was enveloped in flames.

The flames burned for an entire day. The altar acted as a fuel that was consumed in its entirety and turned into ash. And once it all settled, amidst the ash, the King found a simple pot filled to the brim with a familiar substance - Payasam.

It was a milk-based sweet. Something the Royal Chefs had crafted many times, though frequently on sacred occasions. As he was about to dip his finger into the pot to taste the sweet, the Sage grabbed his hand.

"These are for the consorts, Your Majesty," he explained. "I wouldn't suggest that Your Highness consume it. It would lead to... unwanted consequences."

The King shuddered at the thought and carefully lifted the pot.

At that exact moment. A shrill cry echoed in the air. He looked up, only to see the tail end of a common kite swooping down at him. He instinctively raised the pot to protect his face. But it seemed that the pot and its content were the bird's target all along.

The creature dipped its talons into the pot, grabbed as much as it could hold, and ascended into the air.

The King quickly took stock and was relieved to find that only a small morsel had been lost. He ordered his servants to fetch a cover and carefully carried it towards the Inner Courtyard of the Palace.

---

Far away, in the heart of the jungle neighbouring the Kingdom of Ayodhya - King Dasharatha's domain - a couple were conducting a similar Yagna for a child of their own.

This was the Kingdom of Kishkindha, a sovereignty hidden deep within the treacherous Dandaka Forest. It spanned over 300 kilometres from north to south, and 500 kilometres east to west. The periphery was fairly tame, but the deeper you went, the greater the danger you would face. In these parts, one wouldn't just face deadly creatures and apex predators, but Rakshasas as well.

Yet it was within this dangerous and treacherous wilderness that the couple's love had blossomed. The two were young, devoted, and virile. They had celebrated the fifth anniversary of their union just a few days back, yet the miracle of childbirth constantly eluded them. Not because they weren't trying hard enough. But because they were separated by a biological wall.

The Kingdom of Kishkindha was known to many but visited by few. Because to reach it was near impossible for any mortal man. The Kingdom was ruled by Vanaras, a race of monkey-folk. And of the couple, the man - Kesari - was not really a "man" at all. He was a Vanara.

He was the Chief Commander of the Vanara Army, and his beloved wife was named Anjana, but she was only human. And as he gazed at her solemn face that twitched involuntarily under the assault of the soot emanating from the pyre in front, he couldn't help but let his mind drift back to the day he first saw her.

While scouting the kingdom's borders, his gaze had fallen upon a woman bathing in a forest pool. Her appearance was unlike any he had known; she had no tail, no fur upon her body, and her skin was as pale as milk. A pleasant scent emanated from her, and something about her serene presence enamoured him completely.

For Kesari, approaching and pursuing his affection with Anjana was a difficult task. Though it definitely helped that she wasn't beholden to the standards of beauty appropriate to her species, and she saw him for who he was inside. And it also helped that she did not have parents to object to their union.

When he proposed marriage, Kesari had promised that Anjana would want for nothing. It was only after a year into their marriage that he realised that he had inadvertently lied to her. Because Anjana did want for something, and it was something that Kesari could never give her, no matter how hard he tried. A Vanara and a Manushya were of two distinct species. And although the two were intellectually similar, they were biologically apart.

It was after many, many tries and prayers to every single god under the heavens that Kesari realised there was no way forward - he had given up. However, Anjana hadn't. She firmly believed that the purity of their love would supersede the physical limitations that held them captive.

Kesari could not bring himself to put down his wife's hope. He supported her through every prayer, every offering, every technique known on earth. And though he no longer carried the optimism he used to, his wife remained just as hopeful as they were in their first year after marriage.

Today's Yagna was another of his wife's forays, after she heard that the King of Ayodhya was also turning to the heavens to bless him with offspring.

Kesari stood by and watched as the fire started to diminish, regardless of his wife's incessant attempts to feed it with ghee. Evidently, the gods just weren't listening.

Once the fire died, a morose silence hung in the air. It was broken by the quiet sniffles of his wife. As Kesari approached to embrace her and let her vent her sorrows, his eyes caught movement in the trees.

The branches rustled, and a brown shade zoomed through. He followed the object as it receded into the trees and recognised its form as that of a common kite.

Kesari chuckled and commented, "It was just a-" but his words hitched as he noticed a mound of... something in his wife's palms.

"What is that?" he asked as he brought his nose closer and sniffed. "It smells... good."

Anjana furrowed her brows and pinched a bit off the morsel and tasted it. "It's sweet," she commented. A pleased moan escaped her lips involuntarily, "How heavenly!"

Without a second thought, she tossed the morsel into her mouth and let it dissolve on her tongue. She chimed a laugh in surprise as the flavours danced across her taste buds.

"Where do you think the bird got this from?" Kesari muttered as he scratched his head.

"Do you think this is a sign from the gods? Maybe they were pleased?!" Anajana posited.

"Right..." Kesari drawled. 'As if the gods would care about little old us...'

---

Apparently, the gods DID care about them. Because a month later, Anjana found herself with a child. The revelation caused Kesari to forget how to breathe and faint in shock.

Eight more months later, the couple welcomed a beautiful baby boy into the world. And to honour the god that brought them this gift, they named him Maruti - the son of Vayu, the God of the Air.

Kesari was still doubtful about that fact. Although his son's conception was nothing short of a miracle, and was probably induced by the sweet his wife swallowed, he couldn't shake away the thought that the sequence of events wasn't some divine providence. A coincidence felt like a more apt descriptor.

But his doubts and disbelief were instantly shattered the moment his boy learned how to walk. Because instead of falling off tree branches like a careless monkey should, he floated gently to the ground.

From that point onwards, Kesari no longer questioned anything.

---

Maruti was a mischievous lad. Kesari and Anjana quickly learned that having a super-powered child brought with it a unique form of parental hell. All the usual problems were there - the tantrums, the boundless energy, the urge to put everything in his mouth - except Maruti's tantrums could level a small forest, and his energy was fuelled by the literal God of Wind.

He wasn't a bad kid. He was compassionate and respectful towards Anjana and Kesari. Just that when it came to interacting with strangers or outsiders, Maruti's first instinct wasn't to bow in greeting, but to figure out what would set them off.

He didn't hurt or maim anyone... physically. But his pranks tended to cause immense mental and emotional torment.

He was obedient to a fault. In that he never tormented anyone in the same manner.

He was intelligent. He could find loopholes through even the most stringent of rules.

He was a menace, through and through.

For instance, after a revered sage complained about being distracted from his meditation, Anjana sat Maruti down. "You are not to bother the holy men," she said, looking him dead in the eye. Maruti nodded dutifully. The next day, the sage found his meditation interrupted not by a child but by a singing puppet that orated all of his deepest insecurities. Maruti, sitting invisibly in a nearby tree, hadn't bothered him at all. The puppet, however, was a different story.

When that loophole was closed with the rule, "You are not to use your powers on the sages," Maruti simply waited for two of them to get into a heated theological debate. Then, using a carefully aimed puff of air, he caused a jumble of jungle vines to descend on them and tied their beards together into a knot so tight it took them three days to undo. He hadn't used his powers on them, merely near them.

Anjana and Kesari were at their wits' end. They knew that their son would get his comeuppance at some point; they only hoped that it would be sooner rather than later.

---

And the tipping point did come one sunny morning. Like any kid, Maruti woke up hungry. He looked around for a snack, and his eyes landed on the big, round, orange thing rising in the sky. To his toddler brain, the sun looked suspiciously like a giant, perfectly ripe mango. And when you're a kid who can fly, "seeing" and "getting" are basically the same thing.

Before Anjana could even ask where he was, Maruti was a rapidly shrinking speck in the sky, making a beeline for the solar system's primary heat source.

Maruti had his eyes set on the yellow ball in the sky, and after flying relentlessly for hours, he realised that he wasn't getting any closer. Frustrated, he gathered the familiar energy that coursed through him when he flew and condensed it. Then, with a mighty push, he released it.

A thundering crack echoed through the world as the little Vanara, unwittingly, broke through the barrier that separated Bhuloka from Svarga.

Imagine a person hitting a glass pane with a mace. Although the damage caused to the pane is equal from either side, it is the side opposite the perpetrator that suffers the consequences of shrapnel raining down on them.

Equivalently, it was Svarga that suffered the brunt of the damage caused by the little monkey's actions.

Svarga was a higher realm, and because of that, there was some leeway on what concerned the nature of reality. In general, the realm could be described as conceptual in nature. What resulted in a thunderclap in Bhuloka, caused the skies of Svarga to crack like porcelain.

The clouds roiled like a poisoned sea. The very air vibrated with the force of his passage, as Maruti darted through like an arrow hurtling at a velocity ten times that of the speed of sound itself.

The effect was catastrophic, to say the least. The Palace in the Kingdom of Heavens shuddered physically as the boy zoomed past. One could imagine this is how reality would behave if there were an earthquake in midair.

Nonetheless, this disturbance wasn't unnoticed. Indra definitely noticed as he was rudely awoken from his sleep.

In a fit of rage, he called upon his divine weapon - his Vajra - and called upon a storm of divine proportions. The skies darkened rapidly as thunderclouds started to form in earnest.

Maruti had barely enough time to take stock of his surroundings before a massive lightning bolt surged from the clouds and struck him on his chin, shattering his jaws instantaneously.

Then, like a kite with clipped wings, he hurtled towards the ground.

---

All of these events didn't miss Vayu's attention. In fact, he had a vested interest in the growth of his spiritual sire.

Ironically, the God of Air wasn't as "free" as most thought him to be.

Unlike the other Devas in Svarga, Vayu's task was of supreme importance. The world could survive for a few days without water. But deprive it of air for even a minute, and you'd have a catastrophic disaster.

Needless to say, there were very few opportunities for Vayu to take a break, and he rarely intervened in the affairs of mortals.

His intervention at King Dasharatha's Yagna, for instance, was completely unintended. The kite's appearance and subsequent theft of the payasam were a complete coincidence.

The Devas were mandated by the Preserver to ensure the success of the King's Yagna, and thus all eyes in Svarga were on the ceremony. When Vayu noticed the bird flying away with the morsel, he felt it would be a waste for it to merely feed a clutch of kite chicks.

And so, with a gentle push, he directed the bird in the direction of the star-crossed couple in the forest.

When he noticed the child born of the divine intervention exhibiting some of his powers, he was elated. As the child grew, he was enamoured by the boy's mischievousness and gregariousness. In a way, Vayu could live vicariously through the child, experiencing a life of freedom he never could.

He particularly enjoyed the complaints. Vayu would be in the middle of managing the jet streams when a prayer, dripping with indignation, would ping on his radar.

"Lord of the Winds, your son has enchanted my prayer beads to spell out insults!"

"Great Vayu, the boy turned my entire week's supply of sacred ghee into butter sculptures of himself flexing!"

Vayu found it all deeply amusing. The sages were so uptight. In his opinion, the boy wasn't a menace; he was a much-needed agent of chaos in a world that took itself far too seriously. So, he'd let the complaints pile up, unanswered. What were they going to do, hold their breath until he responded?

This hands-off parenting approach worked beautifully, right up until the moment it didn't.

One morning, Vayu felt his son's energy signature, which usually zipped around the forest like a pinball, suddenly shoot straight up. And keep going.

Vayu focused his attention and felt a cold dread mixed with a bizarre sense of pride. The kid was trying to eat the sun.

There were very few entities in the world that could pass through the barrier between realms unhindered. Vayu was amongst this handful. It was too late before he found out that his spiritual sire had happened to have inherited this power as well.

Right as the boy burst through the barrier, Vayu rose to intercept him. But before he could take action, the King had already summoned his divine weapon and smote the boy.

Vayu, for the first time in his life, stood frozen in shock. After a beat, he dispersed and reappeared at the boy's crash site. What he saw was a large crater, amidst which lay the still body of the Vanara child. His breath was faint and fleeting. And his lower jaw was a mess of charred flesh and splintered bone.

A beat passed, and both the boy and Vayu disappeared.

---

The doors of Indra's throne room burst open as Vayu stepped in, carrying Maruti's still body. The hall was empty - the court wasn't in session.

Vayu didn't shout. He didn't need to. He simply lifted a hand, palm open, and slowly clenched it into a fist.

And with that one, simple gesture, the air all around Svarga disappeared.

It is hard for one to imagine what the sudden disappearance of air and atmosphere would result in. Needless to say, it isn't a gentle process.

Sound dies first without air to propagate its waves. The pleasant ambience that prevailed in Svarga went mute in an instant.

Then, simultaneously, all things living and "breathing" started to suffocate. Without air, the plants started to wither. The flames that burned eternally in the Palace's braziers snuffed out. The waving flags and rusting leaves halted without the blowing wind to nudge them into action. And worst of all, the suffocating beings couldn't even call for help, because in the vast emptiness, there was no sound at all.

Vayu closed his eyes and waited. A beat later, the empty hall was populated. A heavy thud resounded, and Vayu opened his eyes to see Indra seated on his throne, a grim snarl twitching on his lips.

"Explain yourself, Vayu!" Indra bellowed.

Vayu cast his gaze all around, taking in the audience. He then placed the boy on the ground in front of him and folded his arms.

"Explain yourself, 'your majesty'..." Vayu said with a mocking tone. Indra harrumphed and leaned back into the throne.

Vayu started to pace the halls as he expounded, "Does 'your majesty' believe that the punishment doled out fits the crime?"

"Are you questioning me?!" Indra snapped.

Vayu looked around innocently and said, "Yes. I thought I was clear about that."

"He's just a boy," Vayu contested. "Was it necessary to deploy the Vajra to strike him down?"

"He broke the peace with his actions. His comeuppance was warranted," Indra dismissed.

Vayu scoffed and looked around. "Do you all believe that the kid is deserving of our King's divine punishment?"

The crowd remained passive; some even looked away.

"You don't even care, do you?" Vayu expressed exasperation.

There was silence, which was broken by Vayu's dry chuckle.

"HE'S JUST A BOY!" Vayu bellowed.

His lips barely moved, but the voice was deafening, seeming to hit them from every direction at once. It wasn't an echo; it was a perfect, instantaneous unison, as if a thousand invisible Vayus were all screaming the exact same words from every corner of the room, and from inside their own heads.

"A boy capable of moving between realms as he wishes," Indra emphasised. "Do you realise just how dangerous that is?"

"So Your Majesty would rather quell a troublesome child in the crib than raise it to become an upstanding individual?" Vayu responded. "Forgive me, my Lord, but where is the justice in that?"

Faint chatter bubbled in the court as the audience discussed Vayu's challenge.

"He's right. Although the child is mischievous, it doesn't warrant such a fatal retaliation."

"Yeah! Look at the kid's state, he's barely alive!"

"The poor child's jaw is completely decimated. I don't know how that will even recover - the weapon used was His Majesty's Vajra, after all."

Indra's gaze flickered around the room, and an unpleasant frown formed on his face. He raised a palm, and the murmurings dispersed. He coughed lightly and said, "Fine. What do you want?"

"With all due respect," Vayu started. "Fix it."

Indra stared at the broken child, then back at Vayu. He couldn't refuse, but his pride wouldn't let him offer a genuine apology. He chose the path of petty compliance.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, a golden light enveloped Maruti. The charred flesh on the boy's jaw healed, and the splintered bone knit back together, leaving only a faint scar on his chin.

"There," Indra said, his voice tight. With a sneer, he joked, "He's fixed. Now, give us back our air."

The silence that followed was heavier than the vacuum had been. Vayu hadn't moved. The air did not return.

"No," Vayu said. "You healed a wound. You didn't fix the problem."

He gestured around the hall at the other gods, who were beginning to look genuinely panicked. "The problem is that our King can use a weapon of annihilation on a child without consequence."

He turned to face Indra again and said, "You fixed his jaw. You didn't fix his vulnerability. What stops you from doing this again?"

Indra's face hardened. "This is ridiculous! My judgment is final. I have healed him. That is the end of it."

The other Devas looked from their stubborn, prideful king to the cold, unyielding God of Wind.

As the standoff progressed, someone in the crowd gasped and exclaimed, "The air in Bhuloka is being siphoned away!"

Indra's eyes widened, and he glared at Vayu, "Cease this childishness at once. Do not let our petty grievances bleed over to the realm of mortals!"

The Devas started to panic. Although the air was fickle and capricious, Vayu was the most stable of them all. Ironically, it also made him the most stubborn and enduring. They were certain that in a contest between King Indra's ego and Vayu's endurance, there would be no winner.

But amongst the two, the King's ego was the easiest to undermine.

From the crowd, a man stepped forward. He appeared bald, but those with a sharp eyesight could see faint, almost translucent, locks of hair dancing about. It was Agni, the God of Fire, who first broke the stalemate. He stepped forward, ignoring Indra completely, and addressed Vayu directly.

"Your concern is justified, Lord Vayu," Agni declared. He looked down at the unconscious child. "This boy has my blessing. My fire will never harm him."

A wave of power flowed from Agni to Maruti.

A collective shock went through the court, followed by a ripple of understanding. The play was evident now.

Varuna, the God of the Seas, was next. "As will my waters."

Then Yama, the Lord of Death, stepped forward. "Death will hold no claim on him. He will be immortal."

It became a domino effect. One by one, the other Devas stepped forward to bestow their own boons.

Indra watched, and his face furrowed in fury with each person who stepped forward. He had been completely outmanoeuvred by his court. To save the last shred of his authority, he was left with no choice.

"Fine!" he bellowed, rising from his throne. He pointed the Vajra at the boy, but this time, a blessing flowed from it. "My Vajra will never again harm him. His body will be as strong as the weapon itself."

He glared at Vayu. "Are you satisfied now?"

Vayu returned a measured look and nodded. Then, he disappeared along with the boy.

---

Unsurprisingly, adding more powers to an already super-powered boy did little to temper his mischievousness. If anything, it made him more creative. He now had a whole new toolbox of divine abilities to work with, and the local sages were his unwilling test subjects.

As he entered his teens, his behaviour grew more and more egregious.

The final straw came during the sages' most important ceremony of the decade. It was a complex, multi-week ritual, and it all came down to a single, unbroken hour of chanting on the final day. The sages were on the home stretch, deep in a collective trance. Their voices wove the final verses of a mantra that had taken them weeks to perfect.

Maruti had been explicitly warned: do not touch, speak to, or interact with the sages or their ritual in any way. He, of course, found a loophole. His boon from Agni meant he was immune to fire. More than that, he had an affinity for it.

The sages poured the last of the sacred ghee into the ritual fire. They watched as the flames leapt higher, burning with an unnatural purity and intensity. They took it as a sign of success.

They didn't realise Maruti was inside the fire. Correction. Maruti WAS the fire!

He had merged with the flames, absorbing every offering, every ounce of power they poured into it.

They reached the final, critical syllable of the mantra. Their concentration was absolute. Their connection to the divine was a hair's breadth from being sealed.

And at that exact moment, Maruti released the energy.

The sacred fire imploded, sucking in the sound and light for a split second before erupting outwards in a massive, silent concussion of force. A shockwave of shimmering, rainbow-coloured smoke rolled over the clearing, smelling faintly of mangoes.

The sages were thrown back by the sheer, brain-breaking shock of it. Their trance was shattered. The connection to the heavens was severed. The mantra died on their lips.

Weeks of fasting, prayer, and unwavering focus - all of it, gone. Voided in a puff of fruit-scented smoke.

They sat there in the sudden silence, covered in a fine layer of multi-coloured dust, with a faint ringing in their ears.

This was the straw that broke the camel's back.

In a surprising act of cooperation, the sages stood up in unison and pointed at the monkey rolling on the ground in laughter.

Maruti saw the synchronised pointing and laughed even harder, assuming it was the start of some new, ridiculously stuffy game.

One of the sages, the eldest and most tired of them all, stepped forward. He spoke in a calm and steady tone that was chilling to hear. Especially for Maruti, who was used to hearing him shout.

"We are done," the sage said, his voice cut through Maruti's laughter and stopped it cold.

"From this moment on, your power will be a memory you cannot truly access. With the light of every new day, your awareness of these gifts will be wiped clean and be forgotten."

Maruti felt a strange, cold sensation wash through him, as if a trigger had been flipped deep inside his mind. The boundless, crackling energy he had lived with his entire life suddenly felt distant.

The sage continued, "You will live as a simple Vanara - strong and fast, but not limitless. The door to your true potential will be locked."

Maruti blinked, and a genuine sense of confusion dawned on him. He instinctively tried to float an inch off the ground, a trick he could do in his sleep, but his feet remained stubbornly planted in the dirt.

"But," the sage added, "a key will remain. Only when another speaks your praises, only when they remind you of your true nature for a purpose far greater than your own amusement, will that door be temporarily unlocked. Then, and only then, will you remember what you are."

With that, it was over. The sages lowered their hands, turned their backs, and began the long, arduous process of cleaning up their desecrated ritual site. They didn't spare him another glance.

Maruti was left alone, sitting in a pile of multi-coloured dust. He looked at his hands, then up at the sky, feeling for the first time in his remarkable life, completely and utterly… normal.

But this was how it was always supposed to be, right?

---

Spoiler: Author's Note

This was one of my most favourite chapters to write.

Hanuman is a well crafted character. Although he is almost akin to superman, his weakness feels more personal. He exemplifies imposter syndrome. He doesn't "believe" in himself, and constantly needs validation from those around him. Which is why you pray to him so that he remembers his powers and protects you.