The Battle Cry
✨ Soul
Verse
Ek talwar jhalakli. Ek shabd uthla.
Ek guru bolala. Ek punarjanma zala.
(One sword moved. One word rose. One guru spoke. One rebirth began.)
***
“Jai Bhavani!”
The cry erupted like thunder, sharp and sacred, echoing
through the dense jungle mist. It was a call to arms, a proclamation of faith
that danced through the trees. Temple bells tolled in a rhythmic pattern, each
strike resonating as a heartbeat of devotion binding the warriors, the priest,
and the very land they stood upon. The ancient stone walls around the temple
trembled as if answering the fervent call. Oil lamps flickered, casting warm
glows that merged with the cool shadows of the evening. The air thickened with
the sweet scent of incense and the weight of destiny looming over them.
Inside the sanctum, Veeraj knelt before the goddess, an
imposing idol adorned with jewels that glinted in the dim light. His polished armour
caught the flickering flame’s glow, reflecting the flickers of hope and fear.
The priest stood beside him, his chants bringing a sacred
rhythm to the moment as they echoed against the stone.
“You trained well,
young warrior,” the priest murmured, his tone reverential yet firm. “But
remember, war listens only to dharma. It is not just your skill that will guide
you, but the righteousness of your path.”
With bated breath, Veeraj gently placed his sword at the
goddess’s feet, the cold steel a stark contrast to the warmth of the temple.
“Bhavani Mata will
guide my blade. Guard my soul,” he declared, conviction lacing his voice.
A red flower twitched in the priest’s hand, then fell, unnaturally,
impossibly, from the idol’s grasp, landing softly before Veeraj. He looked up,
and for a brief heartbeat, he felt the goddess’s eyes shine with a divine
light.
***
🔮 A Flash of the Guru
In that mystic moment, the mist shifted, revealing the
figure of Swami Rudraprakash, seated serenely beneath the sprawling branches of
a neem tree. The memory consumed him for a moment.
“You will walk twice,” the guru had said, his eyes closed in
deep meditation.
“Once with fire. Once with memory.” What did it exactly
mean?
The swami had placed a folded leaf in Veeraj’s hand, a
seemingly ordinary leaf that held within it a spiral drawn in ash, symbolic and
profound.
“You are not merely a warrior,” he had whispered, his words
a balm for Veeraj’s restless heart.
“You are a vow, embodying the sacrifices and promises of
your ancestors.”
As the jungle light touched Veeraj’s face, it felt like the
warmth of forgotten memories, not the morning sun.
He could see his mother waiting patiently at the temple
steps, her eyes glistening with unshed tears yet steady with resolve.
“Kumkum and rice,” she spoke softly, pressing the vibrant
blood-red powder and grains into his brow.
“For your protection on this journey. For your safe return
to us.”
Taking a deep breath, Veeraj whispered back, “I’ll return
with honour.”
It was an oath; a promise forged in the depths of his heart.
“Return with breath,” she replied, her voice barely above a
whisper. “Honour can wait for another day, but the breath of life is your
priority.”
Beside her, his father stood tall, adjusting Veeraj’s
vambrace with precision.
“You’ve trained hard, my son,” he said, pride and concern
wrestling in his eyes.
“But always remember, dharma comes first. Pride can lead to
a downfall.”
Veeraj nodded, asserting, “I’ll fight clean, I promise. I’ll
fight true.”
“Good,” his father
replied, the tension easing slightly in his shoulders. “Then the jungle will
remember you as a warrior of worth.”
Then there was Meera, his newly wedded wife & childhood
companion, silent but expressive, tears pooling in her eyes like morning dew.
She stepped forward, placing a red thread in his palm and curling his fingers
around it gently.
“Say something,”
Veeraj urged, his voice a soft plea.
Shaking her head, she replied, “If I speak, you’ll stay. The
words will bind you here.” “Then don’t speak,” he said, desperation creeping
into his tone. “Just wait for me.”
The red thread thrummed in his hand, a pulse that felt warm
and alive, a shared heartbeat of hope and longing. At the edge of the clearing,
Meghraj, Veeraj’s loyal steed, waited. The stallion was as black as the night
sky, with a white flame marking his proud forehead, strong and noble. After
following him for many days, finally, the bond had been established, a bond
centuries old. Veeraj ran a hand along Meghraj’s mane, grounding himself in the
moment.
“You remember the last ride we had?” he asked, a half-smile
breaking through the tension.
Meghraj snorted in response, a sound both mocking and
affectionate.
“That ridge near Bhavani Tara, you almost threw me off!”
With a chuckle, Veeraj retorted, “Don’t deny it. You were
showing off, trying to make me look foolish.”
As he tightened the saddle, it felt like an anchor amidst
the chaos around him.
“They say war is won by steel, my friend,” he continued,
“but I say it’s won by memory. The memories we carry give us strength and
purpose.”
Leaning close, he whispered into Meghraj’s ear, “If I don’t
return, find me again. In another jungle. As another rider.”
It was a vow, deep and unbroken. The horse bowed its head,
as if understanding the weight of the promise. The jungle stirred around them,
alive and watchful. The jungle parted like the fabric of a memory, revealing
the path that lay ahead.
“Ride with me, Meghraj,” he urged his friend Meghraj.
Veeraj rode fast, Meghraj’s hooves striking rhythm into the
earth, a beat of bravery. Behind him, a formation of warriors followed, their armour
gleaming under the dim light, hearts steady, voices swelling into a fierce
chorus.
“Jai Bhavani!” They all roared together, the chant rising
once more, louder and more fervent.
“ Jai Bhavani! ”
The energy surged, echoing back from the depths of the
jungle. As they reached the Warfield, it loomed before them, muddy and sacred,
waiting for their presence. Flags fluttered like vibrant wings, drums thundered
like storm clouds gathering, and the enemy gathered ahead, dark and foreboding.
Veeraj slowed at the ridge, eyes scanning the horizon,
determined. “We hold the ridge,” he declared confidently. “Let the jungle speak
for us.”
Malhar, his comrade and friend, grinned mischievously beside
him. “You sound like a priest! All this talk of dharma and destiny.”
“I knelt before one,” Veeraj replied steadily. “Now I kneel
before something greater, my destiny.” His words were framed in the solemnity
of the moment.
“And I still say you owe me a mango climb,” Malhar added
with a light laugh, trying to ease the heavy tension.
“Don’t die before you repay me!”
With resolve, Veeraj raised his sword high, a symbolic
gesture of both defiance and hope. The red thread still curled around his palm,
reminding him of the love and promises waiting for his return.
“Jai Bhavani!” he roared, voice echoing with all the
strength he could muster. And the jungle roared back, a symphony of
encouragement as the battle began.
“The jungle listened, the spiral glowed faintly, and destiny
prepared to test its guardian.”
***
