A Mother's Promise
(Flashback — Devavrata, Age 10)
Long before he stood at the edge of kingship, before the lotus blazed on his chest like a celestial brand, Devavrata was just a boy of ten — soft-spoken, sharp-eyed, and shaped more by stories than by swords.
This was a time when the river still sang lullabies, when Ganga held him close under a sky that hadn't yet turned its gaze toward his destiny. The weight of the world had not yet found his shoulders. The world did not tremble at his name. Not yet.
These are the hidden years — sacred, silent — where a mother's promise began the shaping of a man.
These were the days when the river still cradled him, when his mother's voice was louder than fate's call, and the lotus on his chest had just begun to glow.
Night fell like a velvet curtain, the sky above studded with stars that seemed to echo the light of the lotus. Ganga wrapped Devavrata in a cloak woven from river reeds, her touch soothing as she tucked him close.
"Do you know why the river flows?" she asked softly.
"Because it must," he replied sleepily.
She smiled. "Yes, but also because it never stops trying. It moves forward even when it meets obstacles, carving new paths when the old ones are blocked."
He yawned, his eyelids heavy. "Will you always help me find the path?"
His voice still held the softness of childhood, that tremble of a boy only ten summers old, yet already carrying questions meant for kings.
"Always," she whispered. "No matter where the river takes us."
Her heart ached with the knowledge that their time together was borrowed — that the day would come when Devavrata must face the world alone. But for now, here in the sanctuary, he was still hers. A son. A soul untouched by the weight of prophecy.
As Devavrata's lotus glowed brighter with each passing moon, the stillness of the sanctuary began to change. The lotus that pulsed on his chest was no ordinary sigil — it was the imprint of the Vasu within him, a fragment of divine will that pulsed in rhythm with his growth.
The winds, once playful, now carried strange scents — sandalwood, lightning, and salt — and the river's songs turned complex, like prayers murmured in forgotten tongues. Something stirred beyond the veil of the mortal world.
Unseen by mortal eyes, tremors echoed through the astral realms.
In Svarga, the celestial realm of the gods, Indra paused mid-discussion during a courtly assembly. His hand, adorned with thunderbolt rings, hovered in the air as he turned sharply toward the southern sky.
"The lotus pulses again," he murmured, eyes narrowing. "He is awakening."
Beside him, the Ashwini twins exchanged wary glances. "Is it truly the Vasu's fragment, or something more?" asked Nasatya.
Takshaka, the serpent king who coiled at the edge of the divine court, hissed low. "Ganga's child walks the earth with more than Vasu-fire. The river gave him more than life. She gave him purpose. Purpose born from divine energy, the very essence of the Vasu-fire within him — a power that demands both mastery and humility."
A silence fell.
"Then he must be watched," Indra declared, rising from his throne of storm clouds. "A mortal raised by a goddess, bearing a divine burden — such things seldom end quietly."
Ganga knew.
She had felt the shift long before the skies stirred or the air thickened with celestial tension. As a goddess herself, she had long since learned to read the signs — the restless winds, the silvery flash of eyes behind thunderclouds, the way the stars hung a little too still in the night sky.
She watched Devavrata as he practiced with his spear — a gift from Varuna, carved of sea-stone and water-forged. He stood ankle-deep in the river, his body lean with discipline, movements sharp and precise. Even at eleven, his form was crisp — the discipline unnatural for one so young. Ganga had given him months of spiritual discipline, yet it was as if something older lived behind his eyes.
"Again," she said calmly.
He exhaled, bracing, and then moved with impossible grace. The spear cut through the air with a sound like rushing water, spinning back into his hand as though summoned by will alone.
A smile flickered across his face.
But before he could revel in his triumph, Ganga's voice interrupted. "You are being watched."
He turned, alarmed. "By who?"
"Not who. What." She stepped into the water beside him. "The gods are stirring. The veil between worlds grows thin when power moves in silence. Your lotus has called to them."
Between the mortal realm and the heavens lies a fragile boundary, one that thinned as Devavrata's growing power stirred the balance
Devavrata touched the mark on his chest. "I didn't mean to call anyone."
"It doesn't matter," she said gently. "Great power is never quiet for long. Power like yours, born of mortal flesh and divine spark, always seeks expression — a path fraught with peril and possibility. You are becoming a force that even heaven must reckon with.."
As nights deepened, the sanctuary's stillness seemed to shift. The air carried strange scents — jasmine mixed with an unspoken tension — and Devavrata found his dreams restless, filled with distant echoes and riddles that slipped away before he could grasp their meaning.
One morning, he asked Ganga, "Why do I feel like something unseen watches over me?"
She smiled softly, brushing his hair back. "The world holds many eyes, Devavrata — some driven by fear, others by curiosity. But the true challenge lies not in what watches, but in what you choose to become."
He met her gaze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "What if I become something they all fear?"
Her expression grew serious. "Then you must walk carefully, my son. For the gods may tremble at what stirs within you — but it is men who will fear you most"
Remember," Ganga told him, "a vow is not just a promise. It is a seed of dharma. And every seed must face storm, drought, and sun — before it becomes a tree that shelters others.
It was a moonless night, and the sanctuary stood silent as a held breath. A silver mist clung to the treetops, and the waters of the Ganga glowed faintly — not from moonlight, not from moonlight, but from a memory older than light itself..
Devavrata couldn't sleep.
He felt something pulling him — not a voice, not a dream, but a tide within his bones, a current that would not let him rest. The lotus on his chest pulsed softly, lighting his path as he slipped from the hut and wandered barefoot through the cool grass. The lotus was more than a mark — it was a reservoir of his inner energy, a spiritual seed that grew with his strength and will, connecting him to the currents of the cosmos.
The river waited.
Its surface was unnaturally still, as if holding its breath. The air vibrated with a quiet hum that made the hairs on his arms rise. Frogs had ceased croaking. Crickets were silent. Even the wind, which had sung lullabies in the reeds all evening, had grown hushed.
Then he heard it.
Not a sound, exactly — more a presence that unfurled around him like a memory of thunder.
"You are the lotus-born,"
the voice said, rising from the depths like an echo carried from the beginning of the world.
Devavrata's breath caught in his throat. He looked around, but the trees were empty, the air unmoved.
"You are the oath yet spoken,"
the voice continued — deep, fluid, vast.
"You are the promise, and the price. You will break the wheel… or become it."
The river stirred. Small ripples fanned outward from the center of the stream, though no stone had been cast. The water shimmered, and within its depths Devavrata saw visions — fleeting and half-formed:
A golden throne, shattered.A battlefield strewn with shattered weapons.A woman weeping in white.A crownless man, kneeling beside a child.Himself, older, silent, alone.
Only a boy of thirteen, yet already the lotus had made him dream like a seer and ache like a warrior. He did not yet know what it meant to carry fate — but he could feel its edges pressing in.
He took a shaky breath, the visions swirling in his mind like storm-tossed waves. Yet beneath the rising tide of uncertainty, a spark of resolve kindled within him. "What does it mean?" he asked, voice trembling but steadying. "Who are you?"
The river's voice softened — a murmur now, but no less profound.
"I am that which bears all burdens.
I am the memory of gods and the tears of men.
I am Ganga, and I am the world's witness.
And you, Devavrata, are my echo."
He turned — and saw her.
Ganga stood on the riverbank, her hair a cascade of stars, her eyes shadowed with secrets too old for language. She had come silently, as always, and now watched him with a gaze full of sorrow and pride.
The boy's voice cracked. "Am I cursed?"
She shook her head, slowly. "You are not cursed. You are called."
"I don't want to be part of the wheel," he whispered. "I want to be free."
Ganga stepped forward and gently brushed his cheek, her touch cool as river foam. "None of us are truly free, my son. Even the gods move in circles of fate. But you… you may bend the wheel. Even if only once."
The river swirled behind her, whispering ancient names. The lotus on his chest flared briefly with golden light, reflecting in her eyes.
Devavrata met her gaze, the weight of choice heavy but no longer crushing. "And if I choose wrong?" he whispered.
There was a long silence. The wind returned — soft, mournful.
Ganga wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. "Then you will still be my son."
He closed his eyes, pressing his ear to her heart. It beat like waves crashing on distant shores.
"Will you always be with me?" he asked, barely a breath.
"I will be the water beneath your feet," she said. "The silence before a storm, your strength when your sword trembles, and your peace when the world breaks."
Tears spilled silently down his cheeks.
Ganga knelt, so they were eye to eye. "This power in you, this lotus-light — it will grow. It will frighten kings and tempt gods. But remember: it is not power that defines a man. It is the vows he chooses to live by."
Devavrata looked up. "And if I must choose a vow that breaks my heart?"
She brushed the tears from his face. "Then let your heart break — but let your word hold."
"Power may carve paths," she whispered, "but vows shape destinies."
Something stirred beyond the earthly realm—an unseen gaze, a whispered promise. He felt both awe and fear; the path ahead stretched wide and uncertain, but he was ready to step into the unknown.
Behind them, the river quieted, returning to its calm. But the lotus on Devavrata's chest now burned with a steadier light — not just the light of a Vasu reborn, but of a soul being forged into something larger than fate. Something inevitable.
And somewhere far above, a star blinked — as if uncertain how this story would end.
In time, the boy would grow. He would bear the weight of vows heavier than steel, and the light of the lotus would blaze across battlefields and legends.
But for now, beneath the watchful eyes of the river and goddess, he was only Devavrata — a son, a promise, and a seed of destiny yet to bloom.