Yuga cycle;
Satya Yuga (Krita Yuga): 1,728,000 years (golden age)
Treta Yuga: 1,296,000 years (silver age)
Dwapara Yuga: 864,000 years (copper age)
Kali Yuga: 432,000 years (iron age)
Total: A complete cycle (Chaturyuga or Maha Yuga) is 4,320,000 years
Larger cycles;
Manvantara: 71 Maha Yugas make up a Manvantara, or one "age of Manu".
Brahma's one day: A "Day of Brahma" is a much larger time period consisting of 14 manvantaras and 15 "Manvantara-sandhyas" (junctures). It's the daylight time of Brahma.
Kalpa (A Day of Brahma): A period of 4.32 billion years, which is considered one "day" for the creator god Brahma.
Brahma's Lifespan: A Brahma lives for 100 of these "Brahma years," which is a period of 311.04 trillion human years. After this, there is a Mahapralaya, a cosmic dissolution, before a new Brahma appears.
....
The age of iron had outlived its shine.
Empires rose not on virtue but on deceit; temples turned into markets; and the gods, tired of unanswered prayers, withdrew into silence.
Rivers, once mirrors of the moon, carried the smoke of the cities that poisoned them.
Men had forgotten the taste of truth.
The sacred was mocked, the profane worshipped.
The world had reached the dusk of Kali Yuga.
And on one moonless night in Shambhala, amid thunder that had no rain, a cry broke through the silence of centuries.
A child was born.
His father, the Brahmana Vishnuyasha, trembled as he held the infant. The air in the hut grew heavy; even the oil lamp flickered without wind. Outside, the stars rearranged themselves — a forgotten constellation lit for the first time in ten thousand years.
The boy's eyes were dark as the storm that births oceans. He did not wail like other newborns; he looked upward — as if searching for something beyond the roof, beyond the sky itself.
They named him "Kalki"
Years passed.
Kalki grew under the watchful eyes of sages who had themselves forgotten why they awaited. He was swift with the sword, but his heart resisted war. He knew the hymns of the Vedas, but they felt like words written for someone else.
At night, he dreamt of flames that did not burn and oceans that whispered his name. Sometimes, he saw faces —a human with ferocious beast like upper body ,a dwarf who grew till he reached beyond the heaven itself,a prince with a bow, a cowherd playing the flute,a warrior wielding an axe — all with his own eyes, his own smile.
He would wake drenched in sweat, unable to breathe, haunted by the sense that he was not just one, but many.
"Who am I?" he asked the river one dawn.
"And why does the world feel like a memory?"
The river, tired of human questions, gave no answer.
One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, a voice older than thunder spoke behind him.
"Because, child, you are not merely born — you are returned."
Kalki turned.
A man stood on the hill's crest, half wrapped in bark, half armored in silence. His eyes blazed like molten gold; an ancient axe hung across his back.
"Parashurama".
The warrior-sage — the immortal fury of Vishnu — the man who had slain the proud to protect the meek and had since watched every age decay again.
Kalki bowed low. "Guru… You waited for me?"
Parashurama nodded. "For ages. The wheel of time turns slow, but it always returns to its beginning."
Kalki's voice trembled. "They say I am born to end evil. But I do not even understand what dharma is. How can I fight for what I cannot see?"
Parashurama looked past him, toward the dying sun. "When men forget dharma, even the gods forget themselves. To restore it, you must first remember what creation was meant to be."
He stepped closer, his words slow, weighty as mantras.
"Before you lift the sword, learn why swords exist.
Before you destroy, understand why destruction was woven into creation."
Kalki lifted his gaze. "Then teach me, Master."
Parashurama shook his head gently. "I have taught enough through blood. You must hear from those who have seen all — the Chiranjivis, the timeless ones. Seek them. Each carries a fragment of truth lost to ages."
Kalki whispered, "Where must I begin?"
Parashurama pointed eastward. The mountains were veiled in mist, but somewhere beyond their peaks, the sky shimmered with faint, bluish light.
"Begin where all endings began —
with the Rishi who saw the universe drown and breathe again.
Seek Markandeya, the witness of creation itself.
He alone remembers the silence before Om."
That night, Kalki left Shambhala.
The wind shifted as he walked; even the stars seemed to follow.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, an ageless sage sat by an endless river, eyes closed, seeing what mortals could never see — the child on the Peepal leaf, floating upon the waters of dissolution.
And thus began the final journey —
the end that would reveal the beginning.