अन्तः अस्ति प्रारंभः।
The end is the beginning.
A caterpillar dies, to birth a butterfly. Water evaporates to rain down. Dead carcasses fill the stomachs of vultures.Life gives way to death and death to life. In a vicious circle of different karmas...
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Silent footsteps sank on the empty trek, the harsh winds managing to enhance the burning intensity of dying fires that were devouring the last of name plates, scattered on the remains of what used to be homes.
As the smoke thickened, with increasing difficulty in breathing, Mihira trudged along faster. There was no man in sight, thankfully, but she had no illusions that army would not be marching down the same wrecked, trodden paths that she was hurrying along.
With morbid curiosity, she remembered the days when she used to read about deaths and holocausts men had tainted the pious Earth with and lamanted at the metamorphical and literal crossroads, no one would remain to record this end of an era, a Yug.
She wished that people would remember the destruction their predecessors had wrought on Mother Earth, marring her with blood, destruction and darkness.
It was worse than what anyone but Sanatanis could imagine. Yamuna had dried, Ganga on the verge. Blood had mixed with Krishna and Godavari. The world had come to a full circle.
Only, at the start, the blood was of Kshatriyas only and shed by Prabhu Parshuram. Now, at the end of Kaliyug, many Hindus were dead, no discrimination in their casts and no nobel killers.
The killers were cowardly and killed shamelessly. Sometimes, they didn't kill the body. They tried to crush the soul of the valiant bhakts as it begged to leave the cage it was trapped into.
The few who remained alive, like Mihira herself, had either been exploited and imprisoned or knew.
They knew the Kaliyug was ending, signs clear in the warring nations, obese vultures, dead plants and burnt homes. Clear, in the hushed and feared but desperate chants of the names of the Tridev and Tridevis. Clear, in the dwindling number of people who knew a language like Sanskrit existed. Those who knew had also known the only place they must beg for atonement at.
Shambala.
Mythical as it was claimed, the hidden city was the only hope of the remaining Hindu refugees who had been reduced to homelessness in their country, 58 Islamic countries closing in with intention of war and China exploiting the economy greedily, sinking it's fangs in the ancient history and knowledge the Golden Sparrow still nurtured.
A waft of bitingly cold air hit her, the sharp smell of copper—blood, she had begun to recognise— and ice hiting her. She was finally there, in the solid isolation of Kailash, Himalayas. For over a year, Mihira had been chanting the shlok to connect to Shambala, the words wrapped in her mind so deeply that now when she, rarely, opened her mouth to speak, the first words out were the chant.
She did not expect to find Shambala, knowing that only souls free from the karma cycle would be ever able to reach the pious Light City but her curious heart could not leave the idea to rest. A part of her, that was the Aatma being punished in the bloodbath of Kaliyug, had yearned—begged— for one chance to just once, try or die on the holy ground that had once been graced with Dharma and it's legacy.
It was a hopeless night when she had first dreamt of a city made of soil and gold alike. Equality even in the uniformity of the shape of houses, a river broader than Brahmaputra flowing seamlessly with different kinds of lotuses that made the water look like a glass mosaic.
She had woken up the next morning, even behind her closed eyes, she had experienced the brightness that enveloped the city in day, the sweet smell of lotuses becoming her favoured scent even when she had never physically smelt one and the crashing of the fierce but controlled river against rocks. Chants of names of gods long forgotten and forgotten names of known gods echoed in her ears for weeks.
She hadn't dare hope for months, as she saw the city better than her own city. Marble walls, iron gates and soft Earth, unmarred by the blood and venom humans always left in their wake.
Sitting on a secluded rock, Mihira closed her eyes and straightened her back, chanting only the names of those for whom, by whose wishes, she was still alive.
Ones who were her hope, her parents and her only confidants.
She did not know how long had she been sitting there when she felt a sudden warm breeze at the feet of Kailash, on the edge of Gyangunj. She could not feel the rays of the sun on her skin, nor could she hear the soft waves of Mansarover that had cocooned her earlier.
A creak echoed in her ears, too close to be in the mountains and in the direction from which she had come. She opened her eyes.
Nightfall had come again, however, contrary to what she remembered to seeing as a child, there were no stars.
The illuminating brightness came from the white marble that was reflecting the borrowed shine of the moon. Silver light had drenched Mihira and the snow around her, so much so that it almost felt as if she were under the special care of Chandra Dev.
The white marble gave way to deeply familiar iron gates that curled beautifully, almost looking like inverted wings of an angel. Upon looking closely, she noted the gates were locked, their black shining a beautiful cobalt blue and sacramento green when the light hit certain spots. It looked like it had been made of liquid obsidian.
Mihira's heart thudded in her chest, her ribs truly feeling like a cage as she wished for nothing but mukti. The gates were the entrance to the city of Shambala and they were locked.
The lock wasn't only on the inside, however. It was locked from both sides. Perhaps it symbolised how many people of Kaliyug went under Kali Purush's influence and never came out, locking out a part of themselves that held the ansh of the Parmatma, their aatma—soul. Something so pure that it was what humanity could only yearn and beg to be, with each passing day.
However, her observation was cut short by noticing someone standing behind the closed gates.
He was abnormally tall, perhaps around 12 feet. The man was wearing a cotton looking dhoti of a warm brown colour with forest green tunic that came down to his knees. He was wearing an armour that covered his chest, arms and knees. Several small knives were strapped on his forearms and calves. A brown turban covered his hair, which looked like they could cause trouble in his attention if kept unbound.
The spear in his hand loomed easily over himself, it's sharp head glinting menacingly in the moonlit night.
"Why have you chanted for Shambala, Kaliyugi?" The soldier, for he could be none else, demanded gruffly, his grip on the weapon shifting minimalistically.
A heady mix of every feeling happy and good twirled in her mind. With one more chant of Lakshmi Narayan under her breath, Mihira answered his question.
