Chapter 1: Another World, Another War

Somehow, I’ve landed in another world—one where my old life feels as distant as last year’s Diwali. I keep thinking about the things I left behind: Amma’s chai brewing on a rainy morning, my little brother’s relentless teasing, and the endless ping of WhatsApp messages from friends I might never see again. Now, all of that is gone, replaced by an unfamiliar sky and rules I’m still learning to follow.

Here, power isn’t about who you know or how fast you can run to catch the metro—it’s about chanting in a language so old and sacred, it might as well be magic. As an ordinary person, I’m not even allowed to cultivate, let alone listen to the divine tongue. Since I can’t understand it, my only job is to sweep the ashram grounds, trying to blend in, day by day, like one more shadow in the crowd.

This ashram is the centre of everyone’s life: the clang of temple bells in the morning, the scent of burning agarbatti, the scratchy feel of mitti under my nails, and the constant shuffling of chappals on the old stone floor. As a sevak, I keep my head down, sweeping under the peepal tree, careful not to attract the stern gaze of any senior sadhak. Sometimes, snippets of the sacred tongue float over the neem hedge—mysterious, powerful, always just beyond my reach. My heart aches with curiosity, but in Bharat, rules are rules. For now, blending in means keeping quiet, palms dusted with earth, eyes lowered, ears half-open to the hidden world swirling around me.

Today, the S3 season begins. People from every sect—big and small—are transported into a vast arena. This is the War of Ten Thousand Clans, a battle that happens once every hundred years. Some look excited, others are trembling with dread. On Bharat’s side, a heavy cloud of sorrow hangs in the air, pressing down on everyone’s shoulders.

In the ashram courtyard, elders cluster around the tulsi plant, whispering anxiously. The air is thick with the scent of impending doom, and even the sparrows seem subdued. “It’s over. If we lose again this time, I’m afraid Bharat will be wiped out.”

“In the S1 season, we lost eighty percent of our spiritual energy.”

“In the S2 season, we lost eighty percent of our sacred relics.”

“This time, we have nothing left to give.”

“God really wants to destroy Bharat.”

As the news spreads, cries of pain rise up, faces turn skyward in helplessness. Somewhere, a dadi clutches her mangalsutra, muttering prayers as she wipes her tears with the edge of her saree. Bharat was once unbeatable. But somehow, our ancient knowledge was cut off, and so little has survived from those golden days. With such a meagre inheritance, defeating the powerful foreign clans feels impossible. We’ve already lost two rounds. This time, hope itself seems to have surrendered before the battle begins.

Elders gather in corners, shaking their heads, muttering, “Bas, ab toh sab khatam ho gaya.” One adjusts his woolen shawl, eyes shining with unshed tears. Foreigners, seeing our despair, start to mock with open glee.

“Bharat hasn’t been destroyed yet? What are you going to offer this time? Eighty percent of your women warriors?”

“Arre, why don’t you just fold your hands and touch our feet now itself?”

“Personally, I wouldn’t mind taking in a few young and beautiful Bharatiya women.”

“All the people Bharat sent this time are young—are all the elders dead? Hahaha.”

A few of us bristle at the taunts, hands clenching into fists, but what can we do? Our own despair runs deeper than their jeers. I remind myself, keep your head down, Arjun—Ma always said, never give them the satisfaction.