The village clearing buzzed with murmurs as Bhaskar, the farmer, arrived, hefting his worn hoe over his shoulder. Thick-set and sun-darkened, he looked every bit the weathered laborer, whose strength and weariness were born of the soil. He was already tired of what he expected tonight—a ritual of tales and chants too fantastic for his taste. He’d come for truth, not myth, and his patience for fanciful stories was as short as his nights.
“Here we go,” he muttered as Padmanabha, one of the village’s senior brahmins, strutted into the clearing, his round, well-fed belly straining against his crisp white dhoti. Beside him walked Sudarshan, a gaunt priest with sharp eyes that seemed to assess everyone for their devotion.
Bhaskar exchanged glances with a few villagers. Padmanabha and Sudarshan thrived in this new world order under Prithu’s rule, reinstating caste boundaries and ceremony, all while mocking the memory of King Vena, whose attempts at social change had earned him their lasting resentment.
“Bhaskar,” Padmanabha said smoothly, a thin veneer of cordiality in his voice, “have you come to hear how the earth rebelled against Vena’s evil?”
Bhaskar snorted. “Or how the gods had to become calves and milkmen, begging the Earth-Cow for favors?”
Padmanabha’s expression hardened. “Yes, Bhaskar. That is the truth of our heritage.”
Sudarshan cleared his throat, raising his voice for the gathering crowd. “Indeed! The Purana says, ‘Vena’s wickedness was so complete, so beyond salvation, that even the earth denied its harvest. It refused to yield under his rule.’”
“प्रकृत्या वर्णसंकरं वेनः पापयोनित्वात्।
निषधत्वं निषेवायां स जातः सर्वकर्मकृत्॥”“From Vena’s sinful mixing of castes, the Nishadas were born—those of mixed caste, exiled from society, doomed to wander the outskirts.”
Bhaskar scoffed. “The earth refusing to grow crops? You expect me—who has tilled the land since you nursed at your mother’s teats—to believe a king’s rule alone made the fields barren? And you call your new poems Purana? What old scriptures, you good-for-nothing priest? You and your brethren compose and tweak them daily, then call them ancient.”
At this, Sudarshan sneered. “What you call foolishness is the will of the gods, who sent Prithu to restore order.”
The crowd stirred as another figure approached, and Bhaskar’s face lit up in surprise. Anjali entered, emaciated yet still graceful. Her appearance caused a ripple of disapproving murmurs among the brahmins. She wore a plain sari, its once-bright edges faded from endless days of work. Her husband had been conscripted in the new king’s campaign to “tame the Earth,” a campaign that had brought death to him and many others. Anjali was left with nothing but his memory and whispers from villagers reminding her to accept her place. She glanced at Bhaskar, eyes filled with quiet defiance and fierce sorrow clinging to her like a second skin.
Padmanabha scowled. “Anjali? You dare enter this assembly? These matters are beyond the understanding of women.”
Anjali stood her ground, ignoring the whispers and glares. She had endured worse than these priests’ barbed words. “Beyond my understanding?” she said softly. “The land I till, the food I grow, is understanding enough for me. My husband died for your ‘order,’ yet we suffer more than we ever did under Vena.”
Sudarshan’s eyes narrowed. “Such insolence! Vena defied dharma itself. A mere woman cannot be expected to understand. It is not for us to judge—only for the sages, the saptarishis.”
“Maybe Vena wanted more than just crops. Maybe he saw that we could live differently, that people didn’t have to be bound by birth.” Her voice softened, as though speaking to herself, “Perhaps he wanted a world where even I could speak without fear.”
Anjali’s voice trembled but did not falter. “And what did those sages do? Did they not have a choice?”
Padmanabha began to chant, his voice thick with authority:
“मृत्युना संप्रसूतस्य सूनुः वेनः कृताधरः।”
“Vena, son of Mrityu, was consumed by unrighteousness.”
Interjecting, Bhaskar muttered, “It’s always the same story. Blame Vena for everything—and make him the son of Mrityu today and the grandson of Death tomorrow. All these tales, these ‘cows’ and ‘calves’—just cover for an assassination.”
Padmanabha bristled. “Assassination? Watch your words, Bhaskar. The seven sages purified the land when they took his life. They brought forth Prithu, a true king, an avatar of Vishnu himself. Vena was no martyr; he was a sinner.” He repeated the shloka:
“मृत्युना संप्रसूतस्य सूनुः वेनः कृताधरः।
अधर्मेण हि संसिक्तो नष्टं कर्तुमुद्यतः॥”“Vena, son of Mrityu, was consumed by unrighteousness. Steeped in sin, he threatened to destroy the very world.”
Bhaskar cut him off again. “Steeped in sin, you say? That’s easy to claim after he’s gone. It’s convenient to blame him for the earth’s troubles, as if your words could hide what really happened.”
Padmanabha smiled slyly. “And what happened, Bhaskar? What is this ‘truth’ you hold so tightly?”
“Maybe Vena tried something hard,” Anjali said, her voice calm but defiant. “But that doesn’t mean he was wrong. Not everyone fits neatly into these roles we’re born into.” Her voice held a note of sorrow, as though she knew her words might be dismissed outright, yet she pressed on.
Padmanabha, indignant, raised his voice. “It is not our place to disrupt what has been set by the gods. If Vena allowed the varnas to mix, look what followed: famine, chaos. The scriptures call it adharma. And Prithu, born from Vishnu’s might, saved us all.”
The two brahmins shared a look of derision. Padmanabha laughed softly, mocking. “Vena was arrogant. The saptarishis, in their wisdom, saw it. They were forced to rid the world of his blight.”
Sudarshan chanted in support:
“सर्वभूतानां प्रधानं पृथुं वेदविदो विदुः।
नारायणांशसम्भूतं चक्रवर्तिन् पृथुं पतिम्॥”“The learned know Prithu as the lord, the foremost among beings, an incarnation of Narayana himself.”
Anjali’s voice rose, though softer. “Is it true that Prithu ‘tamed’ the Earth? Or is it merely that he restored your privileges?”
Padmanabha and Sudarshan shared a look of indignation. “How dare you,” Padmanabha hissed, “suggest that our teachings are mere stories!”
He chanted with fervor:
“ते सप्त ऋषयो धर्मनिष्ठा धर्मेण निहतं पुरा।
वेनं ह्यधर्मयुक्तं दण्डधारेण नीतवन्तः॥”“The seven sages, steadfast in dharma, guided by duty, brought down Vena, the transgressor of the righteous path.”
“King Vena was a blight,” he explained. “He disrupted the sacred varnas, mixing castes without regard. The land withered under his touch.”
Sudarshan nodded, his voice dripping with sanctimony. “The sages had no choice. They struck him down to save us all. Prithu, in his compassion, restored the natural order.”
Bhaskar’s jaw tightened. “Struck him down? Just say what it was. They killed him. Vena wanted a world where we weren’t bound by titles and trades. Maybe he thought we’d all be better for it.”
Kratu, one of the seven sages who had taken part in Vena’s downfall, made his way through the crowd, his white robes simple yet rich. His every movement bespoke an artful humility, a man aware of his authority and secure in the fear he instilled. His hair was matted meticulously in ritualistic locks, and his beard flowed down to his chest.
The villagers fell silent, the atmosphere thick with anticipation.
“Kratu,” Padmanabha began, with an air of reverence. “Here stands the wisest among us. Surely, you can confirm our teachings.”
Kratu raised a hand for silence. He scanned the crowd before settling his gaze on Bhaskar and Anjali, a hint of pity flickering across his face.
“I understand your grief,” he said softly, “but the path to truth is often shrouded in shadows.”
“What of Vena’s sins?” Sudarshan pressed, desperation edging his tone. “What shall we say of the chaos he wrought?”
“The earth was barren,” Bhaskar argued, “but to blame Vena alone for its failings? He could have been wrong, but were we all without blame?”
Kratu regarded Bhaskar, his eyes unwavering. “Is it not the truth that we all carry the burden of our choices? Vena’s reign was one of excess, but he was not devoid of vision. The world around him, too, was changing.”
“But his death,” Anjali said fiercely, “was that justice or a convenience? Was Prithu’s rule true restoration, or merely the return to the old order? And what of those of us, those left behind?”
Kratu shifted, his voice low yet firm. “Change is inevitable, my children. Vena’s reign may have opened doors to new ideas, but it was fraught with dangers. The sages believed that Vena could not be redeemed. They acted to safeguard the people, to ensure that chaos did not reign.”
“Safeguard?” Bhaskar echoed bitterly. “Or were they more afraid of losing their power? This ‘order’ you cherish, it only serves those in power.”
“And Prithu, was he not the one to guide us towards a better future?” Padmanabha interjected, striving for authority.
Kratu frowned. “Prithu did restore the harvest, but he did so through strength and control, not through compassion or understanding.” He turned to Anjali, his eyes softening. “Your pain is understood, my child. You deserve better than the bitterness of the past.”
The air thickened, laden with unresolved tensions. The villagers watched with bated breath, torn between their loyalty to the priests and the uncomfortable truths they were being forced to confront.
Anjali stood tall, shaking off her despair. “If we suffer now, does that not mean we must seek a different way? One where we grow not just as individuals, but as a community?”
Kratu nodded, though uncertainty flickered in his gaze. “Perhaps the way forward lies in acknowledging both Vena’s failures and the seeds of wisdom he left behind.”
“And what of Prithu?” Bhaskar challenged. “Must we become his servants to reap what is rightfully ours?”
The priest’s voice trembled. “The world needs order. That’s a truth that cannot be ignored. But the way of dharma must evolve, lest we end up again in the clutches of chaos.”
Silence enveloped the clearing, a hesitant truce settling among the villagers. In that moment, they stood together, united not by caste or duty, but by their shared humanity.
Anjali turned to Bhaskar, the fire in her heart flickering but alive. “Then we must forge a new path,” she said, “one where each voice matters, and no one is left behind.”
Kratu watched them, the barest hint of a smile breaking through his solemnity. “Change is possible, if only we are willing to embrace it.”
With that, Kratu inclined his head, sensing that his time among them had come to an end. He departed slowly, his figure receding into the shadows of the trees.
As he left, Bhaskar and Anjali exchanged a look of understanding, suddenly aware that they were not alone in their desires for a better tomorrow. Sudarshan and Padmanabha, despite their allegiance to the old ways, felt a stirring within—a recognition of the need for change, however uncomfortable.
“Perhaps we can find common ground,” Sudarshan ventured, his voice quieter now, as he moved closer to the others.
Padmanabha nodded slowly, the tension easing as they gathered together. “For the sake of our future, we must listen.”
And there, in the dim light of the clearing, the original four stood united by a shared hope—a hope for a world that could be shaped by their voices and choices, woven together into a tapestry of change and understanding.
Random Mythoscopy 