Chapter 4: The Yatra Begins

Five hundred years later, I found out—Arjun also got sent to fetch scriptures from the West.

This guy, always one step ahead, always in Devraj’s good books, the nephew with a knack for fixing messes. He said the ashram wanted to spread its wisdom, Swarglok wanted more punya, the journey was important, lots of challenges ahead. Kartikeya—rough around the edges, but tied to the ashram—better to send him away than keep him close.

Devraj frowned, his pearl-and-gold crown slipped sideways, the pearls rattling like loose change. “Letting Kartikeya and Hanuman together—trouble, no?”

Arjun folded his hands. “Don’t worry, Mama ji. Send me along. I’ll keep them in line, and guard against ashram’s tricks.”

Devraj, who never forgot Arjun’s old antics—splitting Mango Mountain, causing havoc, killing nine Golden Peacocks—sighed, but understood: Arjun had grown up. Mistakes of youth, he told himself. Now, Arjun smiled, and Devraj’s heart softened. “You’ve grown up, sharing my burdens. Good. Your mother—my only sister—I grieve, but she loved a mortal, broke the heavenly law. So, she was pressed under a mountain. You split it to save her—now you’re God of Justice, you must understand: Swarglok’s dignity is above all. Since you split the mountain, your mother had to die. I had the Golden Peacocks burn her—”

“Mama ji, old matters—let them rest. I was young and angry, killed in my madness, protected by my sect. You spared me, that’s why I’m here. I should serve Swarglok.”

“Good. But everyone on this Yatra has a crime. As God of Justice, what’s yours?”

Arjun saluted, eyes lowered: “Your Majesty, forgive my offence.”

Devraj: “...”

Arjun’s third eye flashed—Devraj froze, just for a moment. The bells of Swarglok rang, Devraj attacked, Indra Bhavan’s wards rose, ten thousand swords flying at Arjun.

Arjun’s trishul cut a shining arc, black robe and white kurta streaked with blood. He walked through the swords, steady as a saint, and stood before Devraj.

Devraj’s eyes widened, power surging, finally breaking Arjun’s glow. Arjun dropped to his knees—blood splattering Devraj’s silks.

“Nephew offends Your Majesty, please forgive me.”

Outside, Colonel Sharma came running, troops in tow, shouting to protect the throne. Devraj looked at Arjun, trapped. Only two choices: kill him, or send him west. After a long moment, he decided: best not to lose an arm. His nephew’s madness was dangerous, but his loyalty was priceless. So, with a wave, he sent Arjun to Yavapur Gate.

So, when Pandit Gautam was eating mangoes and reciting shlokas at Yavapur Gate, he took his first disciple—Arjun. Gautam looked him up and down: one as fair as marble, the other with eyes like burning stars.

Pandit Gautam clicked his tongue, his monkly air dropping. “With your style, I won’t give you a sannyas name.”

Arjun grinned, flicking dust from his sleeves. “Sannyas name is just a label, guru ji. One’s enough.”

Gautam gave a thumbs up. “These days, except for the baldies at the ashram, everyone’s got some wisdom.”

Arjun said, “Those who suffer most, lack not wisdom.”

Gautam’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve got wisdom roots ten stories tall, son.”

Arjun laughed. “Suffered enough, na—had to grow roots somewhere. Should be enough for now.”

Later, at Five Elements Mountain, Pandit Gautam rescued Hanuman. Hanuman looked Arjun up and down, bouncing around, claiming the title of ‘Eldest Brother’ should be his.

Meanwhile, I was rotting in Yamuna prison, heart stabbed daily, Sharma hovering with fake fatherly concern. “Beta, just accept, the punishments will stop.”

I rolled my eyes, refusing to answer.

Near the end of five centuries, Devi Lakshmi came, reading from the script, going through the motions. I wasn’t playing. As soon as Pandit Gautam and co. arrived, I broke out, wounds bleeding, Vasuki Ribbon whirling. “Bas karo, let’s just go.”

Pandit Gautam said, let’s at least have a fight—otherwise, how will we have our eighty-one tribulations?

I said, fine. Bring it on.

Pandit Gautam snapped his Yatra to the West shut. “As a pandit, I hate formalities. Let’s go. West won’t wait.”

The four of us, ready. Plus a horse—poor thing shivered whenever I looked at it.

Along the road, I noticed Hanuman was different. Me and Arjun—nothing on our heads. But Hanuman had a golden hoop, shining in the sun.

I pointed. “Kya hai yeh?”

Hanuman grunted. “Swami Vivekananda and Devi Lakshmi made it. Carved with monkeys from Kishkindha. When the pandit chants, it drills into my head—can’t be opened, can’t be removed, and all I hear are my monkeys crying.”

I understood. Just a fancier version of chakra-dad.

I cackled, “Congrats! Now you’ve got your own hoop-dad, yaar.”

The two of us turned to look at Arjun.

He smiled coolly. “I don’t need a hoop or chakra. My monkeys and mother are gone, nothing left to control. My brothers and dog are in Swarglok. What need have I for hoops or chakras?”

I got it, and let out a wicked laugh. “So these are the three ways to train a dog?”

Arjun just looked at me, silent.

Hanuman was sullen, no trace of the old rebel. Hands in pockets, I walked between them, feeling odd. “The three of us—there’s no one more rebellious in all the worlds. Why are we playing fetch-the-scripture? This isn’t right. Why not fight? Five hundred years in jail—if I don’t fight, what’s the point?”

“Fight and get locked up again?”

“No. This time, fight to the end. Sharma and Deepak must die—or I do.”

“Then go.”

I sighed, glancing at Hanuman. “No choice, yaar. A real man pays back kindness before revenge. Have to help Hanuman first.”

Hanuman dropped back, silent. “Let the pandit carry the load and lead the horse—isn’t that improper?”

We walked on ahead. Looking back, Pandit Gautam muttered curses under his breath, his dhoti already stained with dust from the road, dragging horse and bags.

I blinked. “Why can’t this big horse help?”

Hanuman answered, “That’s a naga horse—a naga. Scared of you. Walk more, and pandit will have to drag it the whole way.”

Understanding dawned. Typical. I turned and kept walking, ready for anything.