Subahu cast a doleful look in Narasimha's direction. He was happy and sad at the same time. He was confused why he was feeling two such conflicting and contradictory emotions at the same time. His victor was his own son. He hadn't lost to an outsider. It was the triumph of his own flesh and blood.

But he had lost as a father in his son's eyes. He was longer his son's hero. He stood in the position of an accused before his son. He would never forget the look of despondence, disappointment and recrimination in his son's eyes. It was as though he had indiscriminately trashed his son's dearly loved idol to the ground.

He ought to have been more careful while his son was in Mahishmati for a short vacation. He had always known that his son was very righteous. It was like second nature to him. He got carried away in the moment when he awarded that punishment to Sanga. He would take care in future that nobody would come between both of them.

As he withdrew to his personal chambers wrapping his shawl around himself, he glanced at the joyful crowds of Mahishmati celebrating his son's victory over him. This kingdom and its people had never owned him just as he had never owned it. He just belonged to Mahishmati by the accident of birth. Once his son would return to his Gurukul, he would show them who was actually at the helm of affairs. He would let them temporarily celebrate this small occasion of triumph.
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Just as the low that comes after a high, Narasimha felt bad for his father. His father had also committed an error of judgement. But what seemed to trouble him even more was the response of the masses to their king's defeat. There was something definitely wrong with a kingdom where the people stood behind the king's opponent rather than the king himself.

This instance confirmed his prior doubts that there were several things that weren't going to his father's notice. His officers and ministers had turned very corrupt and avaricious. This was tainting the overall image of his father and his rule. As the Prince of this kingdom, it was his duty to rectify things before he went back to the Gurukul.

Just then, he glimpsed a pair of familiar eyes among the crowds. He felt them boring holes into his back. He tried to scan the sea of faces but in vain. He brushed aside the feeling with a slight shrug of his shoulders. It must have been his illusion. Why would his friend Bhavani be here of all places?

Narasimha ordered the soldiers to get a chariot ready for him. He would personally see to it that Sanga Amma was dropped off wherever she wanted to go. He no longer trusted that his words would be exactly executed by the soldiers if he did not personally oversee it. Perhaps the rebels were justified in their own place. Maybe they were fighting against injustice standing on the other side of law.

The crowds dispersed gradually talking among themselves. With an upraised hand, he stopped his father's men and other soldiers from following him and Sanga Amma. He did not want the old lady to be harmed in any way after his departure. He drove on in silence. The old lady had a very hard expression on her face that gradually softened up after a while. She said, "I am not going to thank you for any of this."

As Narshimha made the horses gallop by swinging the reins, a playful smile danced on his face, "I know. I wasn't expecting it either."

Both of them had come a long way from the capital. The old lady barely spoke anything else to him except give him a few occasional directions about which path to take. They had left the Rajamarg (Highway) quite a while ago. He wasn't acquainted with any of these muddy and gravel paths they were traversing.

Despite being the Prince of this kingdom, he had rarely ever been on his own before this. All the houses and fields were barren. He was dressed in silks and velvet but the clothes his people wore were old and had been mended and stitched several times. He was ashamed of his own splendor. He felt as though all the luxuries he had experienced till now in life were at the expense of these common people.

It was a side of Mahishmati he had never seen. He had always seen the ministers, the soldiers and the coterie of sycophants who surrounded his father. They were always dressed in the finest clothes. Their houses were always brimming with  gold and silver. He had always heard about his father going from one war of conquest to another.

At that time, he had always thought how brave his father was. But only now did he realize the toll they took over the kingdom and the ordinary people. How much better it would have been if he had heard during his entire childhood that his father was away touring the kingdom and inquiring into the welfare of his people.

The old lady said at last, "There is a small creek ahead. You can leave me there."

"As you wish!" Narasimha replied. He gently brought the horses to a halt. He offered a hand to the old lady to help her alight. She brusquely refused his help as she got down herself. She was suddenly stuck by a thought. She turned back and said, "You know what? You actually remind me of 'him' and not your father."

Narasimha's face wore a clueless expression regarding who the 'him' whom he resembled was. When he looked up the old lady was gone. There must have been a secret passage of some sort near those boulders. Otherwise, the old lady would never have been able to vanish from his sight so fast. He could hear the waters of the creek gathering momentum.

The crash of a thunderous waterfalls boomed ahead. He strolled casually to see what lay beneath the looming precipice. It was a sight he never expected to see. A huge Shiva Ling lay beneath the thundering waters of the waterfall, a solitary witness to the passage of time and destiny. The sight roused a primeval emotion within him. Who must have placed the Lord in that unique position beneath the waterfall? And why?