Bharat—The Mother

Ek aisi dharti jisme har veer, har maharathi, har raja aur maharaja ne apna rakht arpit kiya, sirf Maa ki raksha ke liye. Jaha Vedas ne janm liya, jaha gyaan amar ho gaya, jaha Vishnu swayam avatarit hue aur itihas rach diya gaya. Jaha har kan-kan me Mahadev virajmaan hai, aur prem apni akhand kahani likh chuka hai.

Yahi woh dharti hai jaha Saraswati Nalanda ki dehri pe virajti hai, jaha Lakshmi har ghar me sukh-samriddhi ka roop leti hai, jaha ki mitti sona se bhi shuddh hai. Jaha Dhanmantari ke Vedic gyaan se swasthya ek vardaan hai, aur jaha brahmand ki urja swayam dharti se nikalti hai.

Yeh woh Bharat hai jise na Mughal apna bana sake, na Angrez uspar raaj kar sake. Ek aisi dharti jo na kabhi jhuki, na kabhi tuti. Jo apne veeron ki talvaar se surakshit rahi, jo apne santon ki mantr shakti se amrit bani rahi.

Lekin har mahan rashtra ko ek rakshak chahiye hota hai—ek aisa veer jo apni jaan se zyada Bharat maa se prem kare.

Aur tab ek sher utha—ek aisa yodha jo na bhay se kaanpa, na haar ko apnaya.

Ek naam—Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.

Uska naam yudh ka naara ban gaya, ek aisi garjana jo sadaiv itihaas ke gagan me ghoonjti rahegi. Jai Bhavani! Jai Shivaji!

Lekin jab Soone Ki Chidiya hogi—jaha gyaan hoga, vigyaan hoga, veer hoga, aur anant sampada hogi—

toh gidh Bhi mauka dekh kar mandraye bina kaise reh sakta hai?

Wahi hua... Ek nahi kahani shuru hui.

Jab gidh ne apni nazar gaad di, jab uski bhook aur bhi tez ho gayi, jab woh bas intezaar me tha ki kab Soone Ki Chidiya uske panjon me aaye...

Aur ussi waqt, ek yug badalne wala adhyaaylikha gaya.

The town square stood frozen in the dying light of dusk, shadows stretching long and lifeless. The people had gathered, not out of love nor out of respect, but because they feared the weight of a truth too dangerous to ignore.

His presence was like that of a king’s most loyal guardian—one who would burn the heavens and shatter the earth if his king so commanded. He was not a mere soldier; he was an oath, an iron will forged in the fires of war, a shadow that bled devotion.

In the center of the hall, beneath the suffocating weight of silence, an old man sat chained in steel—his body a ruin of shattered bones and torn flesh. His ribs, cracked open like a temple desecrated by invaders. His skin, a map of wounds, deep and unyielding, yet no shackle could bind his spirit. His eyes—gone, ripped from their sockets, stolen by the cruelty of his captors. His limbs were twisted beyond repair, yet his spine refused to bow.

But his voice—his voice still thundered like a storm crashing upon an empire’s gates.

He did not fear death; death feared him. Even as his body withered, his breath remained a war cry, his words heavy with the weight of a thousand battles. Yet there was something else—a grief buried within his roar, a regret that did not belong to a broken man but to a tiger who once ruled the jungle and was now caged in rusted iron.

This is not a tale.

This is the truth of my Raaje.

Kaala Sooraj Bharat Ka—Mahayoddha Kaalditya

Aho! Yeh kahani nahi, yeh itihaas hai.

Woh raajputra nahi, swayam kaal ka swaroop hai!

Jisne apni janm bhoomi ke charanon mein,

Apna tan, man, dhan sab arpan kiya hai!

Jwala jiska lahu, yudh jiska dharm,

Shastra jiska gehna, veerta jiska varm!

Jiska naam sunke rajaon ke takht hil jaaye,

Aur maut bhi sharan maange uske charnon mein aaye!

Veer yodha!Kaaldityanaam jiska,

Jisme mahakaal ki chaaya, Bhairav ka bhaan jiska!

Jab talwar uthaye, toh suraj chhup jaaye,

Jab aakrosh barse, toh vishw kamp jaaye!

Sola baras ka balak tha woh,

Par shatru ke hriday mein bhay tha woh!

Mughal bhi dar-dar bhage jise dekhkar,

Jisme Parashuram ka sankalp jagmagaye!

Shastra-shastra ka gyaan tha jisme,

Bheem ka bal, Hanuman ka maan tha jisme!

60 man ki talwar jise chhoti lage,

Yamraj bhi dar jaaye jise rokte hue!

Ek sau bees yudh lade, har ek jeeta,

Jisne Afghanistan ki seema tak jeet ka pataka fehka!

Jise dekh kar shatru ne swayan pran tyaag diya!

Arey, woh ek rajputra nahi, woh Bharat ka gaurav hai.

Jo swarg ka adhikari nahi, yeh dharti ka dev hai!

Uski kahani sirf kathayein nahi,

Wo itihaas hai, amar veer ki pehchaan hai!

Jai Bhavani! Jai Kaalditya! Jai Bharat!

Blood dripped from his lips as he lifted his ruined face to the crowd, his voice neither broken nor pleading—but seething, burning like embers refusing to die.

His words tore through the silence like a blade sharper than steel.

"क्या तुम्हें लगता है कि यह बस एक कहानी है?"

His voice cut through the silence, rasping but unshaken.

The people gathered. Curious. Hungry.

They wanted to hear about the king.

They wanted to hear about her.

They wanted to hear why the world burned.

A boy, no older than twenty, stepped forward. His voice was sharp and arrogant.

“Tell us.”

The old man laughed. A dry, cracked sound that carried the weight of too many graves.

“You want to hear about him?” His voice slithered across the silence. “You want to know why mothers still whisper his name in fear? Why does the earth still smell of ash where his kingdom once stood?”

He lifted his head, his hollow eyes gleaming.

“You think you are ready?”

Silence.

A cold wind cut through the square. The sun had not set, and yet—shadows deepened.

The old man exhaled, long and slow.

And then, in a voice that had seen too much, he began.

________________________________________

"He was not a king. He Was a Storm That God Forgot to Stop."

You fools.

You call him a man. A ruler. A conqueror.

But you do not understand.

Men do not carve their names into the bones of history with swords that never stop bleeding.

Rulers do not watch empires crumble at their feet and smile like it was always meant to be.

Conquerors do not walk into the battlefield alone, dressed in nothing but the scent of war, and return without a single scratch.

No.

He was not a king.

He was a question that God never answered.

A shadow that did not move with the sun.

A nightmare that did not fade with dawn.

When he spoke, men listened.

When he raised his hand, thrones shattered.

And when he laughed—oh, when he laughed—even death flinched.

He was the Black Sun.

And the world was too small to contain him.

________________________________________

"But Even Gods Kneel Before Fire."

I was there the first time he saw her.

I saw it with my own cursed eyes.

She was not beautiful. Not in the way poets sing.

She was dangerous.

She stood before him, her chin raised, her hands steady, and for the first time—he was the one being watched.

He told her to kneel.

And she—

She laughed.

"शेरनी सिर नहीं झुकाती। दुश्मनों की गर्दनें झुकाती है।"

I felt the air shift. The ground beneath us was no longer safe.

No one spoke to him that way. No one dared.

I braced myself for her death.

I waited for him to take her throat in his hands and snap it like he had done to so many before.

But instead—

Instead, he smiled.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

________________________________________

"Love? No. It Was Madness Wearing Love’s Skin."

Do you think he loved her?

You fools.

He did not love her like a man loves a woman.

He worshipped her.

He let her carve her name into his ribs with a blade, and he did not flinch.

He let her speak, even when her words burned like a curse, because he would rather be damned by her lips than be blessed by another’s.

And she?

She was no queen.

She was a lioness draped in human skin.

She did not smile softly.

She did not whisper pretty words.

She walked beside a monster and did not fear his teeth.

And that was why the world hated her.

Because she did not bow.

Because she did not break.

And the world—the world does not forgive a woman who refuses to kneel.

________________________________________

"They thought they could kill a god. They Thought Wrong."

They hated her.”

“They feared her.”

“But more than anything, they envied her.”

Because she had done the impossible.

She had made the storm pause.

She had made the Black Sun blink.

And in that blink—history changed.

The boy listening to the story leaned forward, his breath shallow. His arrogance had melted away, replaced by something else. Something closer to reverence.

“Who was she?” he whispered.

The old man chuckled, low and bitter.

“She was a girl with fire in her veins and ruin in her eyes.”

“She was the last thing he could not conquer.”

“She was the first thing he ever bowed to.”

The wind howled through the square, carrying the weight of old memories, of blood spilled under dying stars.

The night she died, the stars refused to shine.

The soldiers dragged her through the palace, her feet leaving a trail of blood, her wrists bound in chains.

I was there.

I heard her breath hitch when they pushed her to her knees.

I saw her lift her head—still defiant, still untamed—and spit at the feet of the men who thought they had won.

And when the sword fell—

I swear to you—

The sky screamed.

And him?

The monster? The god? The king?

He came home to nothing.

He stepped into his court, expecting fire, and found only cold silence.

And at the center of that silence—

Her.

Her body, broken but unbent.

Her hands, tied but still strong.

Her lips, parted as if she had one last laugh left in her throat.

And for the first time in his life—

He fell to his knees.

Not from war.

Not from wounds.

Not from fear.

But because she was gone.

And the next sound that left his throat—

It was not a cry.

It was not a scream.

It was a roar.

And the world—oh, the world has never recovered from it.

________________________________________

"And Then the World Burned With Him."

They betrayed him once.

And when he roared, they cowered.

But they did not stop.

They bound him in chains too heavy for a man—too weak for a god. They shattered his bones, bled him dry, and carved his name into the walls of his own ruined empire like a curse. Yet, they never let him die.

Because death would have been mercy.

They laughed as they broke him, as they stripped him of his throne, his name, his world. They thought time would silence him. That pain would steal his fury. That suffering would make him beg.

But he never did.

He never bowed.

He never broke.

And then—one night—when the stars held their breath and the sky split open—

The fire came.

Not from him. Not from the gods. Not from the hands of men.

It came from the earth itself. From the air thick with treachery. From the weight of sins too heavy to bear.

It did not spare kings. Nor cowards. Nor traitors who once wore crowns.

It swallowed temples and thrones, castles and prisons, the guilty and the innocent alike. It burned louder than their screams, hotter than their sins, wilder than any war that had come before it.

And when the flames reached him—when the chains melted from his skin and the fire whispered his name—

He did not run.

He did not weep.

He did not kneel.

He walked into the inferno, unbound, unbroken—

And they swore they saw him smile.

________________________________________

"You think he is dead? Do you think she is gone?"

The old man tilted his head.

His lips curled—not in amusement, but in something older. Darker.

"You think this story has an end?"

His voice, hoarse and weary, still held the weight of something eternal.

"He waits."

His fingers twitched, curling into a weak fist.

"He waits in the shadows where the sun does not touch."

"And when the world grows too quiet—when kings grow too bold, when men forget to fear—"

The old man exhaled.

"The Black Sun will rise again."

And somewhere, in the distance, thunder growled.