The sun had barely kissed the earth with its amber hue, casting long shadows through the forest where time itself seemed to slumber beneath the banyan roots. Silence pervaded the sacred grove, broken only by the distant chirping of hidden birds and the gentle rustle of leaves bowing to an ancient wind. At the edge of a still lake, surrounded by moss-covered stones and the fragrance of wild jasmine, sat a lone man in a simple black robe.
His hair was dark and flowing, streaked with ageless silver, and his face bore a serenity that only those who had seen the passing of kalpas could carry. His eyes—sharp, black, and ancient—gazed unblinking at the water's surface, where a single fish moved with glacial grace. Beside him, on a gnarled root that jutted out over the water, sat a raven—silent, watchful, and still. The bird's feathers shimmered with a quiet mysticism, as though each one held within it the weight of lifetimes.
But this man and the raven were not two. They were one.
His name, known only to gods and whispered among enlightened sages, was Kakbhushundi—the eternal witness, the cosmic seer. He could appear as a raven, or as a man, or as something beyond both. Today, he chose this form—humanoid, contemplative, half-shadow and half-light.
He watched, unmoving, the lone fish gliding through the crystal waters of the lake. It was a small creature, silver-scaled, swimming with such slow, deliberate grace that time itself seemed to flow in rhythm with it. Each ripple of its path stirred memories older than mountains—echoes of a thousand lifetimes.
A rustle of robes. Footsteps—hesitant, drawn by fate.
An old seer, his robes the color of ash and sun, his hair long and matted from years of penance, approached the lake. He paused at the sight before him—eyes widening in reverence, confusion, and awe.
"By the Trimurti..." he breathed. "Are you... Kakbhushundi? The ageless sage who sings of cosmic truths? The one who walks both as bird and man?"
Kakbhushundi turned his head—not in pride, but recognition. The raven beside him cawed once and fell silent again. The air thickened, as though all of nature held its breath.
"Why," the seer asked, stepping closer, "do you fix your divine gaze upon this lone fish? What could it possibly mean to you, O ancient one?"
Kakbhushundi replied—not in the caw of birds, but in a voice layered with the essence of elements, echoing from the trees, the stones, the air itself.
"This fish," he said slowly, "is more than a creature of water. It is the seed. The spark. The breath before the tempest."
The seer's brow creased. "A seed to what?"
"To the most ruthless battle the universe shall ever know," Kakbhushundi answered, eyes never leaving the fish.
The seer drew back. "What battle? What war do you speak of?"
"Mahabharata," Kakbhushundi whispered.
The ground itself seemed to shiver at the utterance. The seer stood frozen. "I... I know not of such a battle. That name—it is foreign to me."
Kakbhushundi finally looked at him. "You always say that."
The seer blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You come to me in every yuga," Kakbhushundi said, "at this very moment, asking the same question. Each time, you know nothing of what lies ahead. And each time, I tell you."
A strange weight settled on the seer's chest. "I have met you before?"
"In every age," Kakbhushundi said. "You are drawn to me by curiosity, guided by karma, and faded again by time."
He turned his eyes back to the fish. "This creature holds the soul of Satyavati. The fisherwoman who rose to be queen of Hastinapura. The mother of Vyasa. She was the stream that fed the flood."
The seer struggled to grasp the names. "I do not know these people."
"You will," Kakbhushundi said. "Her bloodline will birth Bhishma, who will choose his vow. It will birth Pandu and Dhritarashtra, and the seeds of war. From her soul's decisions, dynasties shall rise and fall."
The seer's voice trembled. "And you have seen this war?"
"More than seen," Kakbhushundi murmured. "I have witnessed it fifteen thousand seven hundred and eighty-two times. Each version slightly different. Some more tragic. Some more just. But always, the war comes."
"And yet," the seer said, "you do nothing?"
"I do my dharma," Kakbhushundi said softly. "I remember. That is my vow. Intervention belongs to avatars, to those chosen by the gods. But memory—memory belongs to me."
The fish flicked its fin, casting a soft light through the lake.
"Why this moment?" the seer whispered.
"Because the wheel turns anew," said Kakbhushundi. "This fish begins another ripple."
The seer sank to his knees, overwhelmed.
Kakbhushundi's gaze grew distant. "I remember Arjuna's trembling bow, Krishna's flute silencing the storm, Draupadi's fire, and Bhishma's fall. I remember Duryodhana's pride, Karna's curse, Yudhishthira's sorrow. I remember the silence that followed the screams. All of it. Again and again."
A pause.
"And I remember you. Standing here. Asking why I stare at a fish."
The breeze carried the scent of time. Petals drifted over the water. The seer closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the man was gone.
Only a single feather—jet black—floated down to the mossy bank.
And far above, somewhere between sky and ether, came a sound—distant, echoing, eternal:
Caw... Caw... Caw...
The lake remained still.
The fish continued to swim.
And the forest, ancient and untouched, kept its silence.