Date: 06.01.2072 [Parth's birthday:31.12.2056]
The beeping of machines was steady, like a metronome guiding a slow, sacred rhythm.
Parth stirred.
White sheets. Cold air. A dull ache between his brows. It was a hospital room — too clean, too bright. And yet… his fingers twitched as if they longed for a bow. His chest tightened with memories that did not belong to this sterile world.
Except they did.
He remembered everything.
Vrushali's smile beneath the bridal veil. Bhishma's solemn voice echoing through Hastinapur's golden sabha. The hush that followed Draupadi's tears. Krishna's laughter wrapped in stardust. And the quiet whisper of his grandmother at the riverbank—
> "The lotus blooms where the mud is deepest, Parth. So too must you bloom in your world."
He touched his arm absently.
The scent of haldi.
Still there.
He sat up, slowly, eyes scanning the room. Charts. Machines. A half-dried marigold in a vase. The calendar on the wall flickered faintly under the sunlight breaking through the blinds.
> 06.01.2072
Only two days had passed since he went back to that era for the second time as Arjun.
And just like that… it was over.
But he was whole.
---
Meanwhile… in Hastinapur
In another time — or perhaps another possibility — Arjun awoke in his chamber.
He stretched with the ease of one who had never walked through fire, never seen Vrushali's kohl-lined eyes, never met the curse of knowing everything before it came to pass.
This Arjun had never been Parth.
And yet, when he passed Krishna in the hall, he paused.
The way Krishna looked at him — it was with too much affection. Too much sadness.
"Have we met… elsewhere?" Arjun asked lightly.
Krishna smiled. "Not quite. But you carry someone's silence with grace."
And walked on.
---
The Riverbank — Where Time Bends
The moon wove silver patterns over the Yamuna. And on its banks sat an old woman — hair like white ash, wrapped in a shawl the color of dusk.
Satyavati.
She gazed at the rippling water, her reflection trembling like a past too full to hold.
Krishna arrived soundlessly, as he always did. His presence folded into the breeze like it had always belonged there.
They sat, just as they had long ago — not as gods or queens, but as two weary souls who had seen the worst and loved still.
> Satyavati: "He changed the ending."
Krishna: "Yes. As he was meant to."
Satyavati: "But no one will know."
Krishna: "He will. And so will we. That's enough."
They watched the stars.
> "Did you tell him?" she asked.
Krishna smiled, a quiet twinkle in his eye. "He knows now. The next avatar must remember the last."
> "Will he find peace?"
"He already has. Because he gave it to others first.But it may not stay longer."
---
A Whisper to the Wind
That night, back in his own world, Parth stood by the hospital window.
The city beyond was alight with late trains and sleepy towers. But the stars remained untouched — the same he had once seen above Kurukshetra's fields and Vrushali's bridal mandap.
He placed a hand on the windowpane.
And whispered,
> "Vrushali… Jyesth… Subhadra… Krishna… mata…
Thank you. For letting me walk beside you.
For giving me a story… that was mine."
A breeze touched his skin. The scent of sandalwood and wild jasmine danced in.
He didn't smile. Not yet.
But peace bloomed inside him — quiet, resolute.
---
Somewhere across lifetimes, a conch echoes faintly.
The war has ended.
But the final avatar is yet to begin...