The Rose of Adharma

ONE - KAILASA

Kailasa (कैलास) – "Abode of the Gods"

The kingdom of Kalinga was a realm where heaven kissed the earth, a sanctuary where the horizon melted into the shimmering ocean in hues of sapphire and gold. It was said the gods themselves had blessed this land, where the winds carried the scent of the sea mingled with the sweet fragrance of sandalwood, echoing a haunting symphony of birdsong. The sprawling lands sparkled under the sun, the air thick with the mingling scents of salt and jasmine, while rolling hills, draped in lush green, stretched toward the sky, their peaks grazing the clouds. Rivers—clear as crystal—danced through the valleys like threads of silver weaving a story older than time itself. At the heart of it all stood the palace, pristine and radiant, its white stone walls and towering spires rising like a benevolent sentinel over the city. Yet, despite its breathtaking beauty, an almost imperceptible weight hung in the air—an invisible cloud of gentle sadness, felt but rarely acknowledged. The people of Kalinga moved beneath this quiet shroud, living their days amidst the gentle ache of things left unsaid, of time that flowed too swiftly and changed too much, while life continued its relentless march forward. And beneath this canopy of celestial grace, a story began to unfold, quiet as the first breath of dawn.

And within these resplendent walls, a child grew, quietly observing and absorbing the world around her.

She wasn't just any child. She was the daughter of King Chitrangada and Queen Nandini, though neither title nor privilege defined her in the quiet way she moved through the palace halls. Her presence was light but not carefree, like a soft wind that barely rustles the leaves, leaving only a sense of its passing. Her dark eyes, wide and curious, held a depth that was unusual for her age, as if she could already sense the world's complexities, as though it whispered its truths to her in ways it did not to others.

From the very beginning, Bhanumathi had been different. She felt things differently, saw things in ways that made her pause where others rushed forward. Even as a young girl, there was a thoughtfulness about her, a quiet contemplation that set her apart. While the other children of the palace chased one another through the grand halls, their laughter echoing off the walls, Bhanumathi found herself seeking refuge in the gardens, her small hands tracing the delicate petals of flowers as though trying to understand their brief beauty. It was in those fleeting moments that she felt a longing swell within her, a whisper of desire for something just beyond her reach. She often wondered why everything, no matter how lovely, seemed destined to fade.

It wasn't sadness in the way one might imagine—not the heavy grief of loss, but a gentle sorrow, like the soft ache that comes with knowing things cannot stay as they are. She didn't speak of it, not to her parents nor to the palace servants who doted on her, for she wasn't certain they would understand. It was her secret—a silent awareness that clung to her like the scent of rain in the distance.

Even at a young age, Bhanumathi felt the impermanence of the world around her. She noticed the way her father's smile faltered when he thought no one was watching, the way the weight of the kingdom sat heavily on his shoulders, though he bore it with grace. She saw the quiet resolve in her mother's eyes, the way Queen Nandini carried her own burdens with dignity, even when she thought she was alone in the gardens. Bhanumathi was always watching, always noticing, though she rarely spoke of the things she saw.

Her world was one of beauty, yes, but it was also one of fragility. The flowers she loved so much bloomed only for a season, their petals soft and vibrant one day, scattered by the wind the next. The people around her smiled, but beneath those smiles was something more—an unspoken understanding that life, even in a place as grand as Kalinga, was not without its shadows.

She would sit for hours in the palace garden, her small hands buried in the earth, feeling the pulse of life beneath her fingers. There was comfort in the soil, in the way it held the roots of the trees, the flowers, the grass. It was the one constant in a world that seemed to shift and change with every passing day. But even as she found solace in the garden, there was always a question lingering in the back of her mind: Why must everything, no matter how beautiful, eventually come undone?

It was a question she never asked aloud. It was too big, too complicated, and she wasn't sure she was ready for the answer.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden light over the garden, Bhanumathi sat beneath a large neem tree, her knees drawn to her chest. The world was quiet, save for the soft rustle of the leaves in the breeze. Her thoughts wandered, as they often did, to things that seemed beyond her years. She wondered about her place in the world—about the future that stretched out before her like a path she couldn't quite see. There was something both exhilarating and terrifying about it, the not-knowing.

Her mother found her there, as she often did, sitting alone in the fading light. Queen Nandini, graceful and composed as always, knelt beside her daughter, her hand resting gently on her shoulder. "What troubles you, my sweet?" she asked, though her voice was soft, as if she already knew the answer.

Bhanumathi hesitated, her eyes fixed on the horizon. "Why do things change?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as though speaking the words too loudly might make them more real.

Her mother smiled, though it was tinged with something deeper, something that Bhanumathi couldn't yet name. "Because change is the way of the world," Queen Nandini replied. "Nothing stays the same, my love. Not the seasons, not the flowers, not even us."

Bhanumathi turned to look at her mother, her brow furrowed. "But why? Why can't things stay the way they are, if they're good? Why do things have to end?"

Her mother's hand, warm and reassuring, gently brushed a strand of hair from Bhanumathi's face. "Because, little one, without change, we wouldn't grow. We wouldn't become who we are meant to be. It is in the breaking that we find our strength."

Bhanumathi didn't fully understand, not yet. But her mother's words settled deep within her, like seeds waiting to take root. She knew there was truth in them, even if she couldn't quite grasp it. Life, she realized, was like the flowers in the garden—beautiful but fleeting. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a kind of beauty in the fleetingness itself, a bittersweet melody that lingered long after the notes had faded.

As the evening sky darkened into shades of deep indigo, Bhanumathi sat beside her mother, cocooned in a silence that felt both comforting and heavy. In that fleeting moment, she tasted the bittersweetness of longing—the child within her yearned for answers, while a nascent understanding whispered that some truths were meant to remain unspoken. Caught between innocence and awareness, she embraced the thrill of the unknown, feeling alive in the gentle shadows that danced around them.

For now, she was still a child, sitting in a garden that would one day fade but, for the moment, was very much alive. And though a quiet sadness lingered in her heart, there was also the smallest flicker of hope—an understanding that even in the sadness, there was something worth holding onto, a yearning that echoed in the spaces between her thoughts, whispering promises of tomorrow.