The Vow Rewritten: Chapter 1

 The First Vow

✨ Soul Verse

Ek shabd hota. Ek paan hote.

Ek ghoda hota. Ek nave jeevan suru jhale.

(One word. One leaf. One horse. One awakening begins.)

The ledge, ancient and unyielding, lay silent like the secrets of a forgotten era. It was a witness to the eternal dance of kingdoms rising and falling beneath the weight of time. Below it, the lush jungle pulsed with life, a symphony of rustling leaves and hidden creatures that breathed the essence of existence. Above, the infinite sky hung heavy, as if waiting for something profound to unfold.

He stood solitary on the precipice, barefoot, his skin kissed by the cool morning dew, and wrapped in a deep indigo cloak that billowed gently in the breeze like a storm yet to come. In his hand, he cradled a folded leaf, its surface etched with the intricacies of the universe. He was neither prince nor priest, but a vow-bound guardian, an enigma whose name had slipped through the cracks of history, yet whose vow resided firmly rooted in the fabric of destiny.

At his feet rested a mango stone, intricately carved with a spiral design, not shaped by an artisan's blade, but engraved by the passage of memory and time. It radiated a soft luminescence, veiled by a cloak of mist. This was a प्राणचक्र (Prānchakra), a soul spiral, created not for aesthetic allure but as a vessel of remembrance.

From the shadows, a striking black horse emerged, its muscles taut and ready, eyes like onyx mirrors holding ancient wisdom. Its mane fluttered in the wind, shimmering like the restless currents of the monsoon. There it lingered, steadfast and watchful, a silent guardian in its own right, bearing a distinctive white mark shaped like a flame upon its brow. It, too, remembered.

With reverence, the guardian knelt and placed the leaf delicately upon the mango stone, cupping it like a sacred offering. In a voice barely above a whisper, he invoked the timeless promise: “If silence is broken, I will return. If the spiral fades, I will redraw it. If the vow is forgotten, I will remember.”

From the embrace of the trees stepped an elder, whose presence was both commanding and serene. His eyes held the hue of dusk, deep and contemplative, while his voice flowed like a riverbed, gentle yet powerful. “You are not meant to fight,” he intoned softly, the wind carrying his words like seeds scattered in fertile soil. “You are meant to ripple.”

The guardian, perplexed yet undeterred, looked up with intensity. “Then why give me a sword?” he pressed, the hilt of the blade glinting dully in the dim light.

“To protect the silence,” the elder replied, a trace of mystery threading his words. “Not to break it.”

As if on cue, the air shifted with a newfound energy, and the horse instinctively stepped forward, drawn to the weight of the moment. “He is yours,” the elder continued, his voice a caress, “not merely to ride but to accompany you in your journey. To witness your path. To remember the stories you will weave, the stories which will ripple across generations.”

The guardian reached out, his fingers brushing against the horse’s mane, which felt soft and warm like a cherished memory, an unbroken promise of companionship and loyalty. “Will the vow survive?” he inquired, a note of desperation lacing his voice.

“Only if you do,” the elder replied, his gaze unflinching, imbuing the words with an undeniable truth.

“And if I fall?” The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air.

“Then let your soul walk again,” the elder answered, a glimmer of hope piercing the shadows.

That night, under a shroud of stars, the guardian inscribed a verse on the folded leaf, his movements deliberate and sacred. This was not a simple poem, but a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā), a soul verse, crafted with intention and heart. He placed it carefully within a hollow stone, a vessel for the vows of old, and lowered his voice to whisper the final line with a fervour that felt timeless:

Ek pratidnya keli. Ek atma halala.

Ek atma halala, Ek punarjanma jhala.
(One vow was made. One soul stirred. One soul stirred. One rebirth began.)

***

Yet, the promise he crafted was never fully received. Betrayed, he found himself unmoored, not by enemies on the battlefield, but by one who mimicked the spiral, who repurposed the sacred soul verse, who silenced the trail of remembrance.

The horse faded into the mist, a spectre of camaraderie lost, while the leaf was entombed in shadows and earth. Thus, the vow fractured, echoing through the corridors of time.

And so, the soul returned to the world, first as Veeraj, a spark of hope amid turmoil, then as Rudra, a force of nature dressed in fury and strength. Not to fight, but to ripple through the fabric of existence, allowing the essence of his vow to resonate through time and space.(One vow was made. One soul stirred. One soul stirred. One rebirth began.)

***

🕉️ The First Vow

Etched into the stone. Folded into the leaf. Whispered into the wind.

To protect silence, not break it.
To protect dharma, not distort it.
To redraw the spiral, if it fades.
To remember the soul verse, if it’s buried.
To return, if the vow is forgotten.
To walk again, if the soul is betrayed.
To ripple, not to conquer.
To witness, not to rule.
To choose again, if choice is taken.
To love again, if love is lost.
To remember. Always.
The Vow Before the Mist

***

The mist enveloped the fort like a lingering memory, thick and enigmatic. Veeraj stood at the edge of the rampart, the wind tugging playfully at his robes. Below, the ancient jungle pulsed with life, vibrant green and full of secrets, as if it were listening to his every thought. Beneath his feet, the stone was marked by a faint spiral, not merely a product of erosion and time, but a प्राणचक्र (Prānchakra), a soul spiral, a symbol of life’s eternal cycle.

“The spiral pulsed once, faintly, as if waiting.”

What exactly was going to happen? Veeraj suddenly felt an unnatural chill surrounding him.

***

Also Read : The Vow Rewritten : Prologue

GetUrBook | Bestselling Book Reviews & Recommendations for Every Genre : GetUrBook Review:Native Species – A Tale of Two Ci...

GetUrBook | Bestselling Book Reviews & Recommendations for Every Genre : GetUrBook Review:Native Species – A Tale of Two Ci...:  NATIVE SPECIES Michael Albergo’s Native Species takes readers into 1928 Los Angeles, a city simmering with bootleggers, crooked cops, and ...

MY NOVELS

 How I Balanced Realism and Myth in 'Where Worlds Part'

One of the questions I kept returning to while writing Where Worlds Part was this:

How much of a story should feel real… and how much should feel just beyond explanation?

Grounded Realism

For me, realism had to come first.

Rudra’s journeys follow actual routes — Panvel, Roha, and Korlai. The distances, roads, and timelines were mapped carefully so that nothing felt out of place. The landscapes — forts, rivers, and coastal stretches — are all drawn from real geography, grounding the story in terrain that exists beyond the page.

Even the quieter details come from lived textures. Rudra’s classical guitar practice, his grandfather’s perspective shaped by a life as a forest officer, and Niya’s quiet observation — these are all rooted in everyday reality.

Mythic Resonance

But the story doesn’t stay there.

There is the spiral — a simple marking, almost easy to overlook, that gradually begins to carry weight beyond its form.

There is Meghraj — a black horse with a white patch, appearing during Rudra’s journey, grounded in the physical world yet carrying something that feels just out of reach.

And there are fragments of verse — whispers that seem to echo across time, as if memory itself refuses to stay contained.

The Balance

I didn’t want myth to overpower reality. I wanted it to lean into it — quietly, almost imperceptibly — until the line between the two begins to blur.

Because sometimes, the most unsettling stories aren’t the ones that feel unreal.

They are the ones that feel almost real.

Stories where silence and echoes coexist. Where memory doesn’t end — it shifts.

And somewhere in that shift… another reality begins.

Where Worlds Part is now available on Amazon.

Stories Behind Superstitions – Part 1:

 The Chakwa

Have you ever heard someone say, “Chakwa lagla hota”—as if they lost their way not just physically, but strangely, almost mysteriously?

The chakwa is a well-known belief in parts of rural India, especially around forests and open lands. People say it makes you walk in circles, lose direction, and feel disoriented—even in places you know well.

Some describe it as a spirit.
Some call it an illusion.
Some just accept it as something that happens.

But what makes it fascinating is not whether it is real or not. It’s how consistently the experience is described. The confusion, the looping paths, the feeling of being led somewhere unknowingly.

From a practical point of view, it could be:

• disorientation in low light
• fatigue during long walks
• the mind misjudging direction

  But the human mind rarely leaves things unexplained. So what began as a natural experience slowly became a story—something we could name, share, and warn others about.

  And that’s how many superstitions are born.

  The chakwa is not just about getting lost in a forest.
  It’s about that moment when certainty disappears—and the mind fills the gap with meaning.

  Interestingly, similar beliefs exist in other parts of the world. In Western folklore, there’s something called the will-o’-the-wisp—mysterious lights that appear in the distance and are said to lead travellers off their path. Much like the chakwa, it reflects that same strange experience of losing direction, as if something unseen is guiding you.

  Have you ever experienced something like this?
  Or heard a similar belief from your region?

  I’d love to hear your stories.

   

STORIES BEHIND SUPERSTITIONS

 

When Beliefs Become Myths

Exploring the forgotten ideas hidden inside everyday beliefs.

Every society carries with it a collection of old beliefs. Some are told as stories by elders on quiet evenings. Others appear as simple warnings that we hear while growing up—do not do this, avoid that, beware of such things. Over time we come to call them myths, superstitions, or sometimes even blind faith.

Modern thinking often dismisses these beliefs rather quickly. We assume they belong to an age when people had fewer tools to understand the world around them. From that perspective, myths appear to be little more than relics of an uninformed past.

Yet it is worth pausing for a moment and asking a different question: did these beliefs always begin as superstition?

It seems unlikely that entire communities would create and preserve stories for generations without some deeper impulse behind them. Long before ideas were written in books or discussed in classrooms, people still tried to understand life—its dangers, its mysteries, and its patterns.

In many cases, myths may have started as attempts to express an idea in a simple and memorable way. A philosophical thought, a moral warning, or a piece of practical wisdom could easily travel farther when it was wrapped in a story. A belief remembered by everyone was often more effective than an explanation understood by only a few.

Over time, however, something interesting tends to happen. The story survives, but the explanation slowly fades. As generations pass, people remember the belief but forget the original thought that inspired it. What remains is the outer shell of the idea—a rule, a superstition, or a curious myth whose meaning is no longer obvious.

What may once have been reflection gradually becomes ritual.

Looking at myths in this way opens an interesting possibility. Instead of asking whether old beliefs are true or false, we can ask a different question: what human experience might have given birth to them?

Some beliefs may reflect practical wisdom from everyday life. Others may express psychological truths about fear, envy, hope, or uncertainty. And some may simply have grown out of humanity’s early attempts to explain the mysterious forces of nature.

Whatever their origins, myths remain part of the cultural memory of a society. They are fragments of how earlier generations tried to understand the world around them and the life within them.

This series is an attempt to revisit some of these familiar beliefs with curiosity rather than judgment. The aim is not to prove that they are true, nor to dismiss them as superstition. Instead, it is to explore the possibility that behind many old myths there may still lie a forgotten idea—simple, human, and perhaps surprisingly thoughtful.

Old beliefs often outlive the explanations that created them.

Perhaps by looking at them again, we may rediscover the thoughts that once gave them meaning.

A Small Invitation

Every region has its own collection of curious beliefs—stories about certain places, warnings repeated by elders, or customs that people follow even though no one quite remembers why.

Perhaps you have come across such myths while growing up.

If you know of local beliefs or unexplained traditions that people still follow today, I would be interested to hear about them. These small fragments of folklore often carry fascinating stories behind them.

Some of them may even become part of the reflections explored in future articles.

---