Two years had passed.

The seasons had come and gone, but the bond between Vajra and Aparajita had grown quietly, like the roots of an ancient tree—hidden, deep, and unshakable. In those two years, they had stood side by side through many challenges, their paths crossing time and again, often in ways they couldn't have foreseen. But the most significant of those moments was when they came together to solve one of the village's long-standing problems: the need for a bridge across the river that divided their lands.

The bridge wasn't just a solution to a physical problem. For the villagers, it became a symbol of something greater—hope, unity, and the power of two people who had brought their communities together.

Now, as Vajra and Aparajita stood at the foot of the newly constructed bridge, watching the villagers make their way across it, there was a quiet satisfaction in the air. The villagers, who had faced isolation for years, now expressed their gratitude with heartfelt words and gestures.

"We thought this problem would never be solved," one elder said, his eyes wet with emotion. "But you two—your union—has made all the difference. We are no longer divided. You've brought us peace."

The word union hung in the air like a silent echo.

Vajra and Aparajita exchanged a glance. Their eyes met, and they both smiled politely, acknowledging the villagers' gratitude. But beneath their calm exteriors, a storm churned in their hearts.

Union.

It wasn't a word they had used for themselves. What they had forged together had always felt like a partnership, an alliance for the greater good. They worked well together, seamlessly even, but the idea of a "union" brought a deeper meaning they hadn't allowed themselves to fully confront. And now, hearing it spoken so plainly by the people they had helped, they couldn't avoid the weight of it.

Aparajita, as always, kept her composure. She had never let her guard down in the years they had worked together, even though she had come to trust Vajra completely. He had earned her faith, her respect, her admiration. But she never showed it—not fully. Her heart was a fortress, fortified by the battles she had fought, both inside and out. She had seen too much, endured too much, to allow herself the vulnerability of attachment. And yet... there was something about Vajra that unsettled her. Something that made her question those walls she had built around her heart.

For Vajra, these two years had brought a different kind of awakening. He had grown comfortable with Aparajita in a way that felt natural, but also profound. Their friendship had deepened, but it had always been in the context of something larger—a mission, a purpose, a shared sense of duty. But now, as he looked at her, standing beside him on the bridge they had built together, he felt something shift. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but there was no denying it anymore: Aparajita wasn't just a comrade or an ally. She was someone who had come to mean something more, something that went beyond their shared goals.

As they began their walk back to the village, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the ground, Vajra finally broke the silence. "Aparajita," he began, his voice quiet but steady, "my education here is coming to an end."

Aparajita's steps faltered for just a moment. She stopped walking and turned to look at him, her face unreadable at first. But as the words settled in, something flickered in her eyes—something that caught Vajra off-guard.

"You're leaving?" she asked, her voice softer than he had ever heard it.

Vajra nodded, his expression calm but his heart racing. "It's time. I've learned what I came here to learn. But that doesn't mean this is the end."

For a moment, Aparajita didn't speak. She lowered her gaze, the weight of his words pressing on her chest in a way she hadn't expected. She had always known this day would come—had prepared herself for it, in fact. But now that it was here, she found herself unprepared for the feelings it stirred within her. She wasn't just losing a partner in their shared mission; she was losing someone she had come to rely on in ways she hadn't fully understood until now.

When she finally raised her eyes, something had shifted in her. This time, her emotions weren't hidden behind a mask. Vajra saw it—the vulnerability, the depth, the unspoken things she had kept locked away. It stunned him.

Aparajita took a slow breath, steadying herself before she spoke. "These two years," she said softly, "have shown me many things. But most of all, they've shown me that not everything can be done alone. I've always walked this path with the weight of my people on my shoulders, but you... you've shown me that sometimes, it's okay to share that weight."

She hesitated for just a moment, her fingers curling slightly at her sides before she stepped forward. Slowly, she extended her hand toward him—not in the formal, distant way she had in the past, but in a way that felt different. Personal.

"This time," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "this friendship is on a personal note. Not for the village,not for the people, not for our dreams. Just... for us."

Vajra's heart leaped in his chest. He was overjoyed, though he kept his expression calm. With a gentleness that surprised even him, he reached out and placed his palm over hers, his fingers curling around her hand. They stood there, holding hands, their eyes meeting in a moment that felt like it transcended everything else—their duties, their pasts, their future plans. In that moment, it was just them.

"I've always valued your strength," Vajra said quietly, his voice full of warmth. "But more than that, I've valued your friendship. And now... I hope that friendship can continue, wherever our paths take us."

Aparajita looked at him, her eyes filled with something that was hard to define—a mixture of gratitude, respect, and something deeper, something unspoken. She nodded, a small, subtle gesture, but it was enough.

For the first time, Aparajita let the walls around her heart crack, just a little.

And for Vajra, it was more than enough.

The river flowed silently under the moonlit sky, its calmness mirroring the quiet tension between Vajra and Aparajita. The flickering earthen lamps beside them cast long shadows on the rocks, and the gentle breeze carried the scent of wet earth, as if the night itself was holding its breath for what was about to unfold. Vajra had come here to say his final goodbye before leaving the ashrama, a place that had shaped him, transformed him, and introduced him to someone whose presence now weighed heavily on his heart.

Aparajita stood a few steps away, her gaze fixed on the water's surface, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold back a storm within. She had requested this meeting, and Vajra could sense the unspoken questions, the doubts that had been growing in her mind.

Finally, breaking the silence, she turned towards him. Her voice, though steady, carried a tremor of something deeper. "Should I call you Narasimha? Who are you, really?"

Her question hung in the air, cutting through the night like a blade. Vajra's heart quickened, but he had known this moment would come. He had felt the weight of the truth he had withheld, and now it was time to share it with the one person who deserved to know.

"I am not Narasimha," he began softly, his voice almost a whisper, "My true name is Rajakumara Vajra, the prince of Dwarka."

Aparajita stood frozen for a moment, as if the ground beneath her had shifted. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she searched his face, trying to reconcile the man she had known with this revelation. The years they had spent together—the humble warrior, the thoughtful friend, the man who had stood by her side during the hardest moments—how could he be royalty?

Vajra watched her closely, trying to read her reaction, but her expression remained unreadable. Her mind, though, raced back through every interaction. The subtle way he carried himself, the discipline, the ease with which he commanded respect without ever demanding it—yes, the signs had been there. And yet, he had never worn his royal lineage like armor. Instead, he had approached her as an equal, as a friend.

She blinked, looking away for a moment, processing the depth of what this meant. When she turned back to him, there was no anger, no betrayal. Just a deep, unsettling realization.

"You never told me," she said softly. "Why now?"

Vajra lowered his eyes, the burden of his truth heavy on his chest. "Because you deserved to know. I didn't hide it to deceive you, but because I wanted you to know me for who I am... not what I am. I needed you to see the man behind the title and I was instructed to live as any common student that is the Arya protocol."

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotions. Vajra knew that his departure from the ashrama would sever the bond they had quietly built over these years. He had felt the weight of that goodbye long before this night, but now that it was here, it felt unbearable.

He rose slowly, ready to take his leave, his heart aching at the thought of walking away. But before he could step away, Aparajita's hand shot out, grabbing his palm. Her grip was firm, her fingers trembling slightly. Vajra stopped, stunned, and turned to her. What he saw took his breath away.

Aparajita's eyes, usually so guarded and composed, were filled with tears. She wasn't the warrior he had known in that moment—she was just a woman, standing on the edge of loss, afraid to see him go.

Without thinking, she stood up and, in a rare, instinctive gesture, wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. The embrace was not one of desperation, but of surrender—surrendering to the emotions she had kept locked away for so long. Vajra froze, shocked by this unexpected display of vulnerability. This was not the Aparajita he had known—the one who faced danger without flinching, who held her emotions behind an impenetrable wall.

But here she was, holding him as if he were the anchor keeping her grounded.

His heart hammered in his chest as he slowly raised his hand and placed it gently on her back, offering the comfort she had never sought from anyone. For a moment, everything else faded—the weight of his royal duties, the looming future, the journey ahead—and all that mattered was the woman in his arms. He could feel her tears dampening his robe, her breath uneven against him. She had never let anyone close enough to see this side of her, but tonight, in this moment, she was unguarded, and it shook him to the core.

"Aparajita..." he whispered, unsure of what to say. He had never seen this depth of emotion from her, and he didn't know how to respond. Her arms tightened around him briefly, as if she was drawing strength from the very man she had tried to remain detached from.

"You're leaving," she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest. It wasn't a question. It was a fact she had been trying to accept, but now, confronted with the reality of it, she found herself unable to let go.

"Yes," he answered softly, "But... I will never forget you."

Aparajita lifted her face slightly, and Vajra looked down into her eyes, stunned by the raw emotion he saw there. Her walls had crumbled, and for the first time, she let him see the woman beneath the strength—the one who had silently depended on him, who had found solace in his presence, even if she never said it aloud.

"I don't care who you are... prince or not," she said, her voice trembling. "What matters is what you've been to me—someone who has lightened my burdens, who... who tried to make my life a little less dark."

Vajra's chest tightened. He had never expected this. He had never imagined that he could mean this much to her.

In that moment, his royal identity didn't matter. His duties didn't matter. All that mattered was the bond they had forged—one built on trust, respect, and something far deeper than either of them had ever acknowledged.

Gently, he cupped her face, wiping away the tears that clung to her cheeks carefully. "I am here, Aparajita. And I always will be, in whatever way you need me."

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch for just a moment before pulling away slightly, though her hands still lingered on his. "Don't go," she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice almost breaking him. "But I know you have to."

Vajra nodded, feeling the same ache in his heart. "Yes, but this isn't the end. You and I... we are bound by something stronger than just time and distance."

For a long moment, they stood there, their hands entwined, their hearts exposed. It was as though the world around them had stilled, leaving only the sound of the river and the weight of unspoken words between them.

When Vajra finally pulled away, Aparajita's fingers lingered on his palm, and for the first time, she didn't let go. She held him for just a moment longer, and then, with a deep breath, she released him—knowing that she had to.

He gave her one last, tender smile before turning to leave, but as he walked away, he knew that something had shifted between them. Something profound, something neither of them could put into words.

And as Aparajita watched him go, her tears now drying, she knew too—that whoever he was, whatever his title, Vajra had become someone she could trust with more than just her life. He had become someone she could trust with her heart.

The day had finally come. After years of training, learning, and living under the watchful eye of Rishi Agastya, Vajra and Agastya were to complete their education. The ashram, usually filled with the sounds of nature, now carried a solemn weight. Both young men stood before their revered guru, their hearts full of respect and gratitude for the man who had shaped them into who they had become.

Rishi Agastya looked at his students, his expression as steady as ever, though there was a softness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He was in thoughts recalling a moment , early during the training of the boys proving his dream that Lord Rama had given him for summoning Vajra to his ashrama. 

"Today, I will offer you a challenge—a task that has tested the greatest of minds."

The students nodded, their gaze intent on their guru.

Rishi Agastya took a small clay jar, filled it halfway with honey, and placed it on a large, flat stone.  Then, a short distance from the jar, he drew a thin line with powdered dried coconut, the bright white dust contrasting sharply with the brown mud earth that been spread on the stone.

"This jar," Agastya began, "represents the essence of goodness, that which nourishes and sustains the world. But this line of coconut here"—he gestured to the bottom—"symbolizes the suffering, unrighteousness, conflict, and ignorance that surrounds it. It represents Adharma and evil. Your challenge is to diminish the presence of this line without touching it, moving it, or drawing over it".

Each student pondered the challenge, and several of them offered their solutions. It was critical ,the battle between the evil and good. 

One student spoke first, "If we draw a larger line representing the good, perhaps this one will look smaller in comparison."

Rishi Agastya listened but shook his head. "This would only serve to create another line. It does not diminish the evil; it still exists."

Another stepped forward, suggesting, "Perhaps we could blow away the line with air, dispersing it until it fades into the soil."

Agastya raised a hand, "While interesting, it only spreads the line, dispersing it, not truly diminishing it."

 Vajra listened carefully to the ideas presented. His brow furrowed as he stared intently at the  line of coconut powder. Finally, a thought emerged in his mind—a solution that didn't involve erasing, covering, or even moving the line.

"Gurudeva," he said quietly, "if I may?"

The sage gestured for him to proceed.

Vajra approached the jar of honey and removed the lid carefully. He tilted it slightly, allowing a few small droplets to fall just  near coconut line. The thick honey coalesced the thin line of coconut powder. He plucked a few leaves of neem before surrounding it near the jar. Then he proceeded to a nearby anthill. Vajra collected a few fresh basil leaves and rubbed them in his hands. He then lightly rubbed the leaves on his arms and the back of his hands, as was custom, to signal calmness and non-aggression to the ants. Next, he carefully placed a fresh lotus leaf that he had gotten from the temple quarters, large enough to hold a small handful of ants, beside the anthill. 

Once the ants were settled on the leaf, Vajra returned to the circle where the honey had mixed with the coconut. He gently placed the leaf beside the honey ring, allowing the ants to step off naturally. Drawn by the rich scent of honey, they began moving toward it, each carrying a drop or fragment as they fed. But they couldn't reach the jar of honey which was surrounded by neem leaves. In time, as Vajra brought more ants, the honey began to disappear grain by grain.

Within minutes, the line began to break apart. The ants, through their natural movements, unknowingly diminished the coconut powder hold over the ground and the Dharma was safe too. Piece by piece, the line faded, until it was little more than a faint trace.

Rishi Agastya's eyes gleamed with subtle admiration as he watched Vajra's solution. So this was the choosen boy to be the last of the scion of Yadavas , choosen well. Choosen , very rightly. Someone who innately carried the wisdom of protection of the good and peace but a mastered stragesist for not just diminishing evil but also uprooting it.

Rishi Agastya stepped forward, his gaze shifting between the two.

"You have both come far," he began, his voice rich with the wisdom of many lifetimes. "The paths you have walked, the trials you have faced—they have shaped you, refined you. But know this: what you have learned here is only the beginning. The true test of wisdom lies not within these walls, but in the world beyond."

Vajra and Agastya stood still, listening with an intensity that came from the depths of their respect for their guru. Every word was a gift, a piece of guidance they would carry with them long after they left the ashram.

"You will face darkness," Rishi Agastya continued, "both within and without. You will face choices where the lines between right and wrong blur. There will be moments when your strength will falter, when the very core of your being will be tested. But remember, true strength is not in your weapons, nor in your might. It lies in your heart. In your ability to stay rooted in dharma, even when it feels impossible."

The words hit deep, resonating in Vajra's heart. He had learned much about battle, about strategy, about the art of war and peace. But these words, about inner strength and the balance of dharma, were what he knew would guide him most in the years to come.

Rishi Agastya's eyes then rested on Vajra. He took a step closer, his gaze unyielding, yet there was something deeply personal in the way he looked at his student. Though ever the firm guru, there was an unspoken bond between them. Vajra had been more than just a student—he had been like a son to Rishi Agastya, though the guru never let such emotions cloud his teaching.

"You, Narasimha," Rishi Agastya said softly, his tone shifting ever so slightly, "you have shown yourself to be one of my finest students. Not because of your prowess in battle as a fine archer, but because of your mind and heart. Your ability to question the world around you, to seek balance, to understand the deeper truths of life and to reflect the wisdom gained in your decision making—that is what makes you exceptional."

Vajra stood still, his heart swelling with emotion. It wasn't praise that moved him—it was the sincerity of his guru's words. He knew that Rishi Agastya wasn't one to flatter. Every word he spoke was laden with meaning, and Vajra understood the weight of what was being said.

Rishi Agastya stepped closer still, now standing directly in front of Vajra. There was a flicker of emotion in the guru's eyes, though he kept his expression composed. "I will always be with you, Narasimha," he said, his voice low, filled with an emotion that Vajra had rarely seen in his teacher. " I have always been immensely happy to have you and today as you depart let me voice a truth - you are the finest among the students I have taught till this day. You have Shri Rama's blessing with you , Narasimha. You came as a ray of light but now , stand as a sun before me. No matter where you go, no matter what challenges you face—my teachings will remain with you. And so will my blessings."

Vajra, feeling the depth of the moment, didn't hesitate. With a humility that came from his very core, he gently bent down and reached for his guru's feet though his own eyes were moist. It was a gesture of ultimate respect, of deep gratitude for all that had been imparted to him.

Rishi Agastya's hands came to rest gently on Vajra's head. "May you walk the path of dharma with strength and compassion," he said, his voice full of blessing. "May you be guided by truth, and may you protect it with your life. May success always stand by you"

Vajra rose, feeling the weight of his guru's blessings settle within him like a calm fire. There was something profound in this moment—an understanding that though his formal education had ended, the bond between student and guru would never fade.

Agastya, standing beside his best friend, also stepped forward to receive his guru's blessing. There was a warmth in the moment, a shared respect and admiration that passed silently between the three of them.

As the sun began to set behind the distant hills, casting long shadows across the ashram, the journey of learning had come to an end. But the journey of life, of dharma, and of destiny—those journeys had only just begun.

Dwarka

The air in Dwarka was thick with the salty scent of the ocean breeze, but today, it carried a new energy, one of anticipation and joy. News of Vajra and Agastya's return had swept through the palace like wildfire, and for a little Bhanumati, this was the best day of her life. Her brother, her Jyestha Vajra, was coming home.

Bhanumati's feet barely touched the ground as she raced through the marble corridors, her laughter echoing off the grand pillars of the palace. Her dark hair flew behind her like a wild stream, her heart pounding with excitement. She couldn't contain herself—her brother, whom she had adored from the stories she remembered and the letters she had held onto so dearly, was finally coming back.

She sprinted down the halls, past the maids and guards, who all smiled fondly at the whirlwind of joy she had become. "Jyestha is coming! Jyestha is coming!" she called out, not stopping to see if anyone was listening.

Bhanumati burst into the royal court just as the last of the councilmen were leaving. She was breathless, her small chest heaving as she tried to compose herself in front of the dignitaries. But the excitement bubbling inside her was too much. She saw her grandfather, Krishna, sitting at the far end of the hall, his ever-calm presence radiating love and wisdom, even in the midst of political affairs.

Krishna looked up from his seat, his eyes twinkling the moment he saw his granddaughter. Bhanumati ran to him, her bare feet padding across the cool marble, her voice filled with uncontainable glee.

"Pitamaha! Pitamaha! Jyeshtha is coming back! He's finally coming home!" she exclaimed, her words tumbling over one another in her excitement.

Krishna's face softened into a warm, knowing smile. His love for his grandchildren was boundless, and the news of Vajra's return had been something he had longed for deeply. He rose from his seat, his arms wide open as Bhanumati rushed into them. He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her small form with the tenderness only a grandfather could give before she sat on his lap in the throne.

"Ah, my little ladli," Krishna said, his voice rich with affection, "You're as fast as the wind itself. Yes, your brother is coming home, and this palace will be alive with his presence once more."

Bhanumati giggled, wrapping her arms around Krishna's neck, but then her eyes caught something else—her father, Bhanu, standing a few steps away, his back to them as he faced the departing councilmen. She saw something she had rarely seen in her father—his shoulders slightly trembling, his hand brushing at his face as if to hide the emotions that were threatening to spill over.

Bhanu had always been a figure of strength and command,whose poise and grace were known across the land. But in this moment, hearing that his son, his Vajra, was coming back after years of separation, the depth of his emotions became too overwhelming to contain. His heart, which had carried the weight of ruling, royalty and fatherhood, now felt lighter, knowing that soon he would hold his son again.

Bhanumati slid down from Krishna's arms before they shared a glance and raced towards her father. She tugged at his robes, and Bhanu turned to her, his eyes moist with unspoken joy. There was no need for words—the connection between father and daughter was strong, and in that moment, Bhanumati understood how much Vajra's return meant to him.

"Pita..." she whispered, her voice soft with the innocence only a child could have.

Bhanu, still overcome with emotion, knelt down and held her close to his chest. He kissed the top of her head, his love for both his children pouring out silently. "Yes, my bangaram, your Jyestha is coming home," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I don't think I've ever been happier."

Bhanumati looked up at her father's face, seeing the tears that glistened in his eyes, though they never fell. She smiled, resting her head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his love and the depth of his joy. In her small, innocent heart, she knew that her family was whole, that her brother's return meant more than just a reunion—it meant the mending of something deeper.

Krishna, watching the two of them, felt his own heart swell with emotion. He had seen many generations pass through these halls, had watched over his descendants with pride and wisdom, but the bond between each of them held something special. Vajra, with his quiet strength and humility, was more than just a prince—he was the heart of the family of his little Bhanu just as Bhanumati.

As Bhanu stood, still holding Bhanumati palm in his own, he turned to his father, Krishna. Their eyes met, and in that shared gaze, words passed between them that only fathers could understand. The joy, the relief, the pride—they all coursed through Bhanu in waves.

Krishna smiled, stepping closer to place a hand on his son's shoulder with a gentle smile. 

 "Will Jyestha bring me something from his travels?" Bhanumati asked, her eyes wide with childlike wonder.

Bhanu laughed, the sound deep and full of joy. "I'm sure he will,bangaram. But you know what the greatest gift will be? Seeing him again."

Bhanumati smiled, satisfied with that answer, but her mind was already racing with possibilities. Would Vajra have stories to tell her? Would he teach her the things he had learned during his travels? She couldn't wait to see her brother again, to feel the closeness that only siblings could share.

As the three of them—Krishna, Bhanu, and Bhanumati—stood together in that moment, the palace of Dwarka felt more alive than it had in years. The anticipation of Vajra's return filled every corner, every hall, with hope and joy.

And though Bhanu and Krishna were rulers, bound by the duties of their royal court, in that moment, they were simply a father and grandfather, overjoyed at the thought of seeing the son who had been away for far too long.

To be continued...

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