The bells of Vyangadesh rang before dawn, their echoes spreading across the sleeping capital. From the towers to the streets, the news raced faster than the wind — the queen was in labor.
Palace servants ran with silks and perfumes, priests gathered in the temple chamber, and nobles rushed from their manors. It had been two long years since the death of Queen Vasundhara, and the kingdom had almost forgotten what joy sounded like.
But now, there was hope — or so it seemed.
In the birthing chamber, incense filled the air, thick and sweet. Damini lay on a cushioned bed, her body trembling but her eyes fierce. She was determined to bring this child into the world as her triumph, her crown.
Outside the chamber, King Raghunath paced restlessly. Sweat glistened on his brow as he muttered prayers he barely remembered. His advisor bowed low beside him.
"Your Majesty," the old man said softly, "the kingdom awaits your word. Shall I prepare the priests for blessing?"
Raghunath nodded distractedly. "Yes… Yes, prepare everything. This child—" his voice faltered, "—this child will be the hope of Vyangadesh."
From within came a sharp cry — the first sound of new life.
The Dasi emerged moments later, cradling a small, wailing infant wrapped in gold silk. "A boy, Your Majesty!" she announced.
The king froze, then exhaled in relief. For the first time in years, a smile broke across his tired face. He took the child carefully into his arms, staring down at him with something like wonder.
Tiny fingers curled around his thumb. The baby's eyes opened — dark and sharp, almost too aware for a newborn.
Damini, pale and exhausted, watched from the bed. "He has your eyes," she whispered.
Raghunath looked up at her, a faint tremor in his voice. "No… he has yours — strong, and unyielding."
She smiled faintly, her lips curving into victory. "Then he will be a ruler who fears nothing."
Outside, the royal herald shouted the news:
"Prince Harishchandra is born! The blood of the gods blesses Vyangadesh once more!"
The city erupted into forced celebration. Drums thundered. Torches lit every street. Wine and gold were poured in the nobles' courts.
But beyond the palace gates, the common folk did not celebrate. They watched from their huts and empty fields, their stomachs hollow from taxes, their eyes tired of false promises.
One old farmer whispered to another, "A prince born in gold, while we bleed in mud. Tell me, brother… what kind of god blesses such a kingdom?"
No one answered.
Inside the palace, Damini held her child close and whispered softly, "My little Harishchandra… you will erase her memory forever."
And from somewhere deep in the shadows, where light could not reach, it almost felt as though a cold wind stirred — as if something heard her words, and smiled.