28.
(Play aayat)
Act-II
(The forgotten Past)
"Prabhu..." Maya whispered, her voice trembling so violently it barely sounded human anymore.
The word dissolved into the darkness of the cave almost immediately, swallowed by the endless sound of rainwater dripping from the jagged stone ceiling above her.
Every drop echoed hollowly against the ancient rock walls, mixing with the distant roar of thunder rolling across the mountains outside.
The storm had worsened after sunset. Cold winds pushed through the narrow cave entrance in uneven bursts strong enough to extinguish weaker flames, yet the small oil lamps trembling before the Shivalinga still survived somehow, their dim saffron light flickering weakly across the cavern like exhausted souls refusing to die.
The cave smelled of wet earth, ash, medicinal herbs, and blood.
So much blood.
It stained the stone beneath Maya's knees in dark crimson smears where she had collapsed hours ago after climbing the final mountain path half-conscious with her child in her arms. Rainwater still dripped steadily from the ends of her hair and soaked silks, forming shallow puddles around her trembling body.
Her breathing sounded uneven in the silence, painfully fragile, every inhale scraping harshly through her chest as though broken glass had lodged itself inside her lungs.
Once, Princess Maya of the western Danava kingdoms had been compared to spring itself.
Now she looked like the final remains of a war no one intended to remember.
Her golden-brown skin was covered in bruises dark enough to resemble spilled ink beneath the flickering lamp light.
Cuts stretched across her arms, shoulders, and throat beneath the torn remains of royal silks that no longer looked royal at all.
One sleeve hung half-shredded from her shoulder where claws—not blades, claws—had torn through flesh days ago during their escape through the southern forests.
Dried blood stained the fabric wrapped around her waist while newer blood still slipped slowly from the corner of her mouth each time she coughed.
Yet despite all of it—
despite the ruin of her body—
she still looked heartbreakingly beautiful.
Not in the proud untouchable way queens often did.
No.
Maya's beauty had always carried softness inside it.
A gentleness that felt disastrously misplaced within the world she had been born into.
Her face still retained traces of that softness even now beneath exhaustion and agony; large tear-filled eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, dark curls clinging damply to her cheeks and throat, lips trembling endlessly between prayer and grief.
Too gentle.
That had always been the problem.
The Danava courts used to whisper it constantly behind jeweled fans and goblets of wine.
The princess was too gentle.
Too compassionate.
Too merciful.
She cried when servants were punished.
She healed wounded birds herself instead of letting maids do it.
She prayed beneath moonlight instead of participating in sacrificial rituals honoring conquest and bloodshed.
Even as a child she had looked at suffering like it physically wounded her.
And perhaps destiny had decided long ago that softness like hers could never survive untouched.
A broken sob escaped her suddenly as she pressed both trembling hands harder against the base of the Shivalinga before her.
The sacred black stone glistened faintly beneath oil lamp flames, cold and ancient and unmoving beneath the weight of her desperation.
Water from the storm outside slid in thin streams across the cave floor and gathered around the sacred platform, making it appear almost as though the mountain itself wept at her feet.
"Why?" she whispered again, her voice cracking apart beneath the force of another sob. "Why have I fallen into this destiny you gods wove for me?"
Blood mixed with tears as they slid down her face.
She no longer knew when the tears had turned red.
Perhaps her body had simply forgotten the difference between injury and heartbreak.
"I only prayed for love," she whispered shakily, lowering her forehead desperately against the stone. "That was all I asked... only love..."
Her fingers curled weakly against the wet rock.
"Love for him," she breathed. "Love from him."
The cave answered with silence.
Only thunder spoke back.
Maya closed her eyes and instantly regretted it because memory returned too easily in darkness.
The Samudra Manthan.
Even after centuries she remembered every detail with unbearable clarity.
The endless cosmic ocean churning violently beneath poisoned skies while devas and asuras stood side by side around the serpent Vasuki. Waves large enough to swallow kingdoms crashed against the heavens themselves while treasures emerged one after another from the depths of creation.
And then—
him.
Lord Narayan.
Lord Vishnu.
Dark as rain-heavy monsoon clouds, adorned in gold that seemed dim beside the radiance of his own existence. Calm amidst chaos. Beautiful in the way stars and oceans were beautiful—so overwhelming that language itself became insufficient.
Maya had looked at him once.
Only once.
And something inside her had surrendered instantly.
It had been foolish. Impossible. Laughable even.
A Danava princess falling hopelessly in love with the protector of the heavens.
Yet Maya's heart had never understood caution.
Narayan loved all beings equally.
That was what saints claimed.
That was what scriptures promised.
And Maya—young, soft-hearted Maya—had believed it with terrifying sincerity.
So she prayed.
Quietly.
Secretly.
Every night beneath moonlight.
Not asking him to choose her.
Never that.
She only wanted to be seen.
Once.
Just once.
Then Lakshmi emerged from the ocean.
Radiant enough to silence creation itself.
And Narayan smiled at her with a tenderness Maya knew instantly she would never receive.
Still—
she continued loving him.
Even after her marriage proposal arrived.
Raudrayan.
The great daitya king whose beauty rivaled celestial beings and whose cruelty surpassed monsters.
He already possessed three wives, countless kingdoms, armies feared even among asuras themselves.
Yet the moment he saw Maya he became obsessed.
"She was born for my throne," he declared openly before courts. "No bloodline is worthy of continuing mine except hers."
Maya still remembered the terror that consumed her when she heard those words.
She had begged her father.
Begged him.
And though Maharaj Virochan was ruthless to his enemies, he loved his daughter beyond reason.
So he refused the proposal.
War followed within weeks.
Violent.
Merciless.
Entire cities drowned in black fire. The palace she grew up in collapsed beneath siege weapons forged from cursed metal. Her elder brother was tortured publicly for days before execution. Her mother died screaming in front of her while trying to shield Maya from soldiers.
And afterward—
Raudrayan married her anyway.
A sharp sound escaped Maya's throat at the memory.
For the first few decades he tried gentleness. Gardens. Jewels. Rare silks. Entire temples carved in her honor. He mistook silence for obedience and patience for affection.
But Maya never loved him.
Never looked at him the way she once looked toward moonlit skies while whispering prayers meant for another god.
Eventually obsession rotted into resentment.
Resentment became cruelty.
Cruelty became ritual.
Humiliation followed by apologies.
Pain followed by gifts.
Punishment whenever he sensed her heart remained elsewhere.
Every night after enduring his rage, Maya climbed secretly onto palace terraces beneath the moon and prayed to Narayan in silence. Bruised. Bleeding. Barefoot against freezing marble floors.
Five hundred years she continued loving someone who never came.
Until the night she discovered life growing inside her womb.
Everything changed after that.
Raudrayan became ecstatic upon learning she carried his heir. The tortures stopped instantly. Healers filled her chambers day and night. Sacred celebrations lasted weeks across the kingdom.
But happiness inside royal courts never survived untouched.
The second mistress Irsha , discovered Maya's hidden devotion eventually.
Jealousy sharpened into murder.
Only Chhaya—the first queen, ancient and terrifyingly perceptive—understood the danger fully.
It was Chhaya who helped Maya escape.
Chhaya who hid her child.
Chhaya who whispered urgently beneath torchlit corridors, "Pray to Shiva. He listens when other gods remain silent."
So Maya fled.
For two years she survived hidden among forests, abandoned shrines, and mountain caves while assassins hunted her endlessly.
Until tonight.
A soft sound stirred against her lap.
Maya looked down instantly.
Her son slept curled weakly against her chest beneath torn blankets, tiny fingers still wrapped instinctively around the edge of her veil.
Meghrath. Barely three years old. Long dark lashes rested against soft cheeks untouched by the horrors surrounding him while rain-cooled curls clung messily across his forehead.
So small.
So painfully innocent.
Maya's chest tightened violently at the sight of him because he looked unbearably alive inside a world determined to destroy him.
Then—
footsteps echoed outside the cave.
Heavy.
Close.
Armor scraped against stone.
Voices followed faintly through the storm.
The soldiers had found them.
Panic slammed into Maya so hard her vision blurred instantly.
"No..." she breathed, clutching Meghrath tighter despite the agony ripping through her ruined body. "No, no..."
Torchlight flickered briefly near the cave entrance.
Closer now.
The child stirred awake at the tremor in her voice.
"Mata?" he whispered sleepily.
That single word nearly shattered her soul.
Maya held him desperately, pressing frantic kisses against his damp curls while tears streamed endlessly down her face.
"I'm here," she whispered brokenly. "I'm here, my moon...my sweet storm.."
Her magic was almost gone.
She could barely feel the remains of it beneath the exhaustion consuming her body.
But mothers discovered strength in places even destiny forgot existed.
Slowly, trembling violently, Maya lifted bloodstained hands before her son.
Golden light sparked weakly between her fingers.
An illusion spell.
Fragile.
Fading.
The final remains of her power gathering like dying starlight in her palms.
"If not me, Prabhu..." she whispered toward the silent Shivalinga, her voice collapsing beneath unbearable grief. "At least my child."
Thunder shook the mountains outside.
Her tears fell faster.
"Please," she sobbed. "Show him mercy."
And then—
the cave entrance darkened.
Not from storm clouds.
From him.
Raudrayan stepped inside slowly beneath the flickering torchlight, and suddenly the entire cavern felt too small to contain his presence.
Rainwater slid from the edges of his black armor onto the stone floor while soldiers immediately lowered their heads behind him in fearful silence.
Even after centuries, the daitya king remained devastatingly beautiful in the cruelest way imaginable.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Skin dark like burnished bronze beneath the firelight.
Long black hair hung loose around his shoulders, damp from the storm outside, while gold ornaments gleamed against the harsh lines of his body.
His face looked almost divine at first glance—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, eyes lined in dark kohl—but there was something monstrous hidden beneath the perfection.
Something cold.
Something starving.
And tonight those eyes rested only upon Maya.
The fury inside them burned quietly.
Which was always worse.
"You should have looked only at me," he said softly.
His voice echoed through the cave like distant thunder, low and terrifyingly calm. "After everything I gave you."
Maya instinctively tightened her hold around Meghrath.
Raudrayan noticed immediately.
A bitter smile curved slowly across his mouth.
"I built kingdoms beneath your feet," he continued, stepping closer through the shallow water gathered across the stone floor. "Destroyed enemies for you. Raised temples in your honor. Turned entire courts into servants of your comfort."
His gaze darkened.
"And still you prayed for another."
Maya said nothing.
The oil lamps flickered violently as wind swept through the cave again, throwing shadows across her exhausted face. Raudrayan stared at her silently for several moments afterward, and for one terrible instant something heartbreakingly human crossed his expression.
Pain.
Real pain.
Because in his own twisted way—
he had loved her.
Obsessively.
Cruelly.
Destructively.
But loved her nonetheless.
Then his gaze shifted toward the child in her arms.
His face hardened instantly.
"Since noble blood flows through his veins," he said coldly, pointing toward Meghrath, "I will spare him."
Maya's breath caught sharply.
"Guards," Raudrayan ordered without taking his eyes off her. "Carry the boy away."
Two soldiers stepped forward immediately.
"No."
The word cut through the cave so suddenly that even the guards froze.
Maya slowly lifted her head.
For the first time in years, there was no trembling in her voice.
No fear.
Only exhaustion sharpened into something frighteningly calm.
"He is the son of a warrior," she whispered, blood still staining her lips. "He can walk himself."
Silence fell.
Even Raudrayan looked startled.
Then slowly—
slowly—
he laughed.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Softly.
Dangerously.
"Ah," he murmured, tilting his head slightly while staring down at her. "Finally death gave you a voice."
Maya looked back at him through blood and tears with terrifying steadiness.
Raudrayan crouched before her then, jeweled rings glinting beneath the weak firelight as one hand closed roughly around her jaw, forcing her to look upward.
"Or," he whispered softly, "do you still expect your precious Narayan to descend from the heavens and save you?"
Maya should have lowered her eyes.
Any sane person would have.
Instead—
she smiled.
Faintly.
Bitterly.
And somehow that expression hurt him more than hatred ever could.
"You are prideful, Maharaj," she whispered.
Raudrayan's fingers tightened against her face.
"If you possessed even a fraction of Narayan's goodness..." she continued weakly, her voice rough with pain yet unbearably sincere, "perhaps I might have given you my heart willingly."
The cave went still.
Utterly still.
The soldiers visibly stiffened in horror.
One of them lowered his gaze immediately as though unable to witness what would follow.
Raudrayan stared at her in complete silence.
And for the first time—
Maya saw genuine rage.
Not irritation.
Not wounded pride.
Rage.
His eyes darkened so violently they almost resembled eclipsed suns beneath the torchlight.
"You still love him," he whispered.
Five hundred years of torture.
Humiliation.
War.
Loss.
And somehow she still loved another.
Raudrayan rose slowly to his feet.
Something inside him finally shattered.
"Since I once grew fond of you," he said coldly, "I will not kill you immediately."
Maya's heartbeat slowed.
Outside, thunder roared louder across the mountains.
Raudrayan stepped backward toward the cave entrance, shadows swallowing portions of his face beneath flickering torchlight.
"War has already begun in the heavens," he said quietly. "And when Narayan falls—"
His smile terrified even his own soldiers.
"—I will make you watch."
Meghrath suddenly burst into frightened tears as guards approached him again.
"Mata!"
Maya lunged instinctively despite her injuries, chains of pain ripping through her body so violently she nearly collapsed.
"Do not touch him!"
The soldiers hesitated.
Raudrayan closed his eyes briefly.
Then spoke without emotion.
"Take the child."
Meghrath cried harder as rough hands lifted him away from Maya's arms. His tiny fingers clawed desperately toward her while sobs echoed through the cave with enough agony to split her soul apart.
"Mata! Mata!"
Maya screamed then.
Not delicately.
Not gracefully.
Like a mother being torn apart alive.
The sound echoed against the mountains themselves.
"MEGHRATH!"
She tried to rise.
Tried to fight.
Magic burst violently from her body in shattered waves of gold and crimson light despite her exhaustion, throwing three soldiers backward against the cave walls hard enough to crack stone.
Wind exploded outward through the cavern while oil lamps extinguished instantly beneath the force of her grief.
For one impossible moment—
Princess Maya returned.
Not broken.
Not hunted.
A danava princess born from noble blood and ancient power.
Her dark curls whipped wildly around her bloodstained face while raw magic burned through the air like wildfire. One soldier collapsed screaming as illusion flames consumed his vision. Another never even reached her before being hurled across the cave by invisible force.
Maya grabbed a fallen sword.
And fought.
Fiercely.
Desperately.
Beautifully.
Like every shattered piece of her soul had chosen violence at last.
But exhaustion eventually betrayed her.
It always did.
A blade struck her shoulder from behind.
Another pierced through her side.
Chains forged from cursed iron wrapped violently around her wrists before she could summon another spell, their dark enchantments crushing the last remnants of magic still alive within her veins.
Maya collapsed hard against the stone floor.
The sword slipped from blood-slick fingers.
Meghrath screamed for her endlessly while soldiers dragged him toward the cave entrance.
"Mata!"
She lifted her head weakly through strands of damp hair clinging across her face.
And smiled at him.
Actually smiled.
Softly.
Tenderly.
As though they were not surrounded by ruin at all.
"Walk proudly, my moon," she whispered.
Blood slid slowly down her chin.
"You are born from love... not cruelty."
Then they tore him away from her.
The cave became silent afterward.
Only rain remained.
Raudrayan stared down at Maya's chained body for a very long time.
And suddenly—
the mountain trembled.
Not from thunder.
Something else.
Something ancient.
The extinguished oil lamps reignited all at once.
The air changed.
Heavy.
Sacred.
Terrifying.
Even Raudrayan stepped backward instinctively as ash began swirling through the cave despite the absence of wind. He was being blocked by a divine energy , which he tried to fight.
Then—
a figure appeared before the Shivalinga.
Tall.
Still.
Wrapped in tiger skin and silence.
Matted dark locks crowned by the crescent moon itself. Ash smeared across blue-throated skin. Serpents coiled lazily around unmoving arms while the Ganga flowed endlessly through tangled hair untouched by earthly laws.
Mahadev.
Lord Shiva.
The destroyer stood barefoot upon wet stone while the universe itself seemed to hold its breath around him.
Maya stared upward weakly through fading vision.
And wept.
Not from fear.
Relief.
Pure unbearable relief.
Because someone had finally come.
Mahadev looked at her quietly.
No judgment rested within his eyes.
Only sorrow.
Ancient sorrow.
As though he had witnessed countless tragedies across creation and still mourned every single one.
"You continued loving," he said softly.
His voice sounded like mountains speaking beneath snowfall.
"Even when love brought only suffering."
Maya's lips trembled violently.
"I could not stop," she whispered.
And Shiva—
the great god feared even by death—
closed his eyes briefly like the answer itself wounded him.
"You prayed for centuries," he murmured. "Yet the heavens remained silent."
And the cave itself shook beneath divine wrath.
Maya's tears fell endlessly now while the chains around her wrists slowly began cracking apart beneath invisible force.
"I do not fear death anymore, Prabhu," she whispered weakly. "I only..."
Her breath broke.
"I only wished to love him freely once."
Mahadev looked at her for a very long time afterward.
Then slowly—
he stepped closer.
And placed two ash-covered fingers gently against her forehead.
The touch felt impossibly gentle.
Like cool moonlight resting against old wounds.
"In another life," Shiva said softly, "you shall love and be loved without chains."
The cave filled suddenly with golden light.
Warm.
Endless.
Peaceful.
And for the first time in five hundred years—
Maya smiled without pain.