Chapter 5 – The River Knows
The morning arrived not as a routine greeting from the heavens, but as a benediction. The sun rose brighter than it ever had, its warmth not scorching but solemn—like a father watching from above, knowing his son was about to choose a path far different from before. And this time, perhaps… this time, the son would not fail to keep his promises—to his mother, to his guru, and to his soul.
Vasusen stirred as a soft shaft of sunlight kissed his brow. For a breathless moment, he expected to see the rishi beside him. But instead, he found himself resting in the lap of his mother, under the same ancient tree. Her palm rested gently on his head, her smile calm, as if she had been waiting there forever.
Confused, he sat up slightly, his voice hushed by awe.
"How… how did you find me here, Maa? Where did the rishi go?"
Radha's smile deepened. "I am your mother, Radhe. I don't need directions to your heart. I only follow it."
She cupped his cheek tenderly. "The rishi was here when I arrived. He said nothing—only placed you in my arms and left without waking you."
Vasusen's eyes widened. "Did he… did he say anything?"
Radha nodded slowly. "Just one thing. He told me to pass on his final words to you:
'Always follow your heart, my child—for that is where your loved one dwells. That path alone shall never lead you astray from your dream.'"
Vasusen lowered his gaze, breath caught in his chest.
And then, wordlessly, he leaned into her and wept.
The tears were not of weakness, but of release—of guilt, of sorrow, of questions too long held in silence.
"I'm sorry, Maa," he whispered. "For hurting you. For… forgetting."
Radha did not flinch. She only held him tighter.
"Why do you apologise for another's wound?" she said gently. "You dreamt of Karna, the king of Anga. But you… you are Radhe, my son. Perhaps I did not birth you—but I raised you. And if one day your birth mother comes, let her come not to reclaim you, but to behold who you have become."
She brushed his hair back.
"You and Karna are not the same river. You may share a sky, but your waters are not yet muddied. You are still as pure as Ganga herself—do not let the weight of a dream dim your own dharma."
A pause. Then she added, as if to reassure herself too,
"Perhaps… perhaps the gods sent you that dream not to burden you—but to keep you from falling as he once did."
Vasusen looked up at her, eyes shimmering. "Maa… before we return, may I… do Surya Puja? Just once. Now that I know—now that I truly know—who He is to me, I want to say hello."
Radha smiled, eyes moist but proud. "Go, my son. Go speak to your father."
---
The Ganga flowed slow and warm that morning, like a great-grandmother gathering her arms around a beloved child.
Half-submerged in the sacred water, Vasusen closed his eyes, folding his hands before the rising sun. His voice was quiet, but the river stilled to listen.
"Oh Father… today I do not come as a devotee, but as your son."
"I do not know if you hear me… or if you even wish to. Maybe… maybe in another world, as Karna, I failed you. But this time—I won't. I promise."
He swallowed.
"Now I understand. I was abandoned… not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. So that I could be found by Radha Maa… and raised not as a prince, but as a commoner. So I could feel what the forgotten feel. So I could rise not alone—but with them."
"Bless me, Father. Give me strength to become worthy of the dream. To be Radha Maa's pride. To be Lord Parshuram's pride. Help me walk forward without anger. Without ego. Without forgetting who I am."
The sun did not blaze—it warmed. Its golden light softened as though it listened, understood. It cradled the boy in its rays, as if to say: Yes, I hear you, my son.
The Ganga lapped against his skin more sweetly now—like the blessings of a great-grandmother whispered through ripples and tide.
---
From a distance, Radha watched.
She had not followed him to the riverbank. Some moments between father and son must not be intruded upon—even by a mother.
Instead, she sat beneath another tree, alone with her thoughts.
And as the sunlight rippled across the water, something about this moment unsettled her—not in fear, but in familiarity.
That rishi… the one who had carried Vasusen into her lap… why had his face seemed so known?
She frowned, searching her memory.
Years ago—yes, long ago, when she and Adhirath had just begun their quiet life in that humble home—a rishi had come.
A veena slung across his shoulder. Mischief in his smile. Eyes too ancient for the face they wore.
He had watched her for a time before speaking.
"Why does the mother of the house look so sorrowful?" he had asked.
And she, too heavy with unspoken grief, had whispered: "Because I am not a mother."
What had followed was not comfort, but prophecy wrapped in kindness.
"Soon… a little sun will come to you," he had said. "Not from your womb, but from the heavens. He will light your home and the hearts of many. Raise him with humility. Let him live simply—even if your husband stands close to kings."
She had remembered the words, yes. Often. But only now, watching Vasusen pray, did a thread connect in her heart.
That rishi from years ago…
The same tilt of the head. The same veena. The same light in his eyes, as though time bent around him.
And for the first time in years, Radha felt the weight of divine design pressing gently against the world… not loud, not grand—but sure.
Like the sound of a single note still echoing.
She touched her chest, as though steadying herself.
Was it possible… that the rishi who had promised her a son… had returned to watch over him?
Her lips parted in a whisper, barely carried by the wind.
"Who are you, truly…?"