As the mists of meditation cleared, Krishnapriya found herself standing on the edge of a crystalline lake. The air felt heavy with the scent of damp earth and ancient wood. There, beneath the sprawling, protective canopy of a banyan tree, sat Aryavardhan.
He looked exactly as she remembered, yet younger—settled in a deep, immovable Padmasana. Seeing him, a surge of desperate joy rose in Krishnapriya. She ran toward him, her hand reaching out to touch his shoulder, to feel the warmth of a living person. But her fingers passed through him like smoke through a curtain.
She tried to scream his name, but her throat felt as though it were filled with velvet; no sound escaped. A sudden, massive splash erupted from the center of the lake, sending a wall of water arching into the air. She saw the droplets soak Aryavardhan’s robes, but as the spray passed through her own body, she remained bone-dry.
The realization was a cold shiver: she was a shadow, a silent witness to a story that had already been written.
The Meeting of Earth and Sea
Aryavardhan rose, startled by the noise. As he walked toward the water’s edge, he passed directly through Krishnapriya’s chest. The sensation was hollow and terrifying, but she steeled herself. She would watch. She would learn.
From the churning water, a voice drifted—sweet, melodic, and laced with genuine panic. "Help me! I cannot stay in this water much longer!"
Through the mist rising from the lake, a figure emerged, clinging to a trailing vine Aryavardhan had cast out. It was Megha. As she pulled herself onto the muddy bank, she was a vision of raw, unintended beauty. Her clothes clung to her skin, transparent and heavy with water, tracing every line of her form. It was a sight that would have stirred the blood of any man.
But Aryavardhan didn’t look. He didn’t linger on her beauty or the vulnerability of her state. With a discipline that seemed almost inhuman, he returned to his seat under the banyan tree and closed his eyes once more.
A Dance of Secrets
Megha stood before him, dripping and shivering, her pride wounded by his silence. When he finally opened his eyes, the air between them crackled with an unspoken curiosity.
"Who are you, maiden?" he asked, his voice steady as the earth. "And how did you find your way to this hidden shore?"
Megha hesitated. She didn't reveal her crown. "I am a guardian of Varunaprastha," she replied, calling herself Devika. "I am a student of the arts, but a mistake in a mantra brought me here. I am lost. Who are you, that you sit so peacefully in this solitude?"
"This is Parijat Island," he answered softly. "I am a commander, but here, I am merely a seeker. I have come to find the path to the realm of my Narayana."
There was a shift in Megha’s eyes—a spark of recognition, or perhaps something deeper. She knelt in the damp grass, her hands folded in a plea. "Then you are of noble blood. Please, help me return home."
Aryavardhan reached beside him, picking a single, blooming perennial flower. He placed it in her palm, its petals glowing with a faint, ethereal light. "Close your eyes," he commanded.
In the blink of an eye, the lake and the banyan tree vanished. Megha stood in the familiar gardens of her own palace, the flower still warm in her hand. She touched her face, wondering if it had been a fever dream, a trick of the mind.
