In the hush beyond time, above the noise of the mortal world, the heavens were silent.

Not because peace had returned. But because sorrow had.

The divine council, once filled with celestial music and laughter, now echoed with unease. Seated upon their jeweled thrones in the Sabha of Eternity, gods who shaped the universe with a glance now gathered with grim faces.

Lord Shiva, the great ascetic, sat cross-legged in calm intensity, his third eye closed, but his aura storming with unspoken emotion. Parvati, the mother of compassion and strength, stood beside him, her eyes deep pools of worry. Seated at the heart of the sabha were Brahma, the Creator, with his serene wisdom; Vishnu, the Preserver, whose calm gaze now reflected conflict; and Goddess Lakshmi, whose radiance dimmed ever so slightly as if echoing the decline of love in the world below.

Saraswati, the goddess of wisdom, placed her veena gently aside. Her voice broke the silence, soft but clear.

"Knowledge has grown. Wealth has spread. Yet the soul of love… has withered."

At her words, the divine sabha stirred.

Narad Muni, ever the messenger between realms, floated forward, his tanpura resting on his shoulder. For once, he didn't sing.

"I've seen it all, wandering among the mortals," he said solemnly. "Today's generation is… quick to love, and quicker to leave."

Parvati's brows furrowed. "They begin young — dating at fifteen, calling it love before even understanding what giving truly means."

"They fall apart by twenty," added Ganesh with a thoughtful tone. "A breakup over a message, a love forgotten in a swipe."

Kartikeya spoke next, his warrior's voice steady. "Marriage is no longer sacred. It's become a formality, or worse, a contract. They marry early, divorce earlier. Some don't even believe in marriage anymore."

"Engaged, disengaged, remarried… the cycle spins like a wheel with no soul," said Chandra, the moon god, his voice tinged with quiet sorrow.

Surya, radiant and stern, boomed, "Love has become convenience. Lust wears the mask of affection. Sacrifice has no value. Commitment is rare."

Brahma raised one of his four hands and sighed. "They speak of 'soulmates' and 'forever'… but how many truly understand the vows? The sacred promises?"

Vishnu's voice cut through the air like gentle thunder.

"They have forgotten what Radha and Krishna taught — that love is divine longing, beyond body, beyond union. They've forgotten what Shiva and Parvati endured — tests of time, separation, sacrifice… and still stood together."

Lakshmi nodded. "No longer do they look to our stories for guidance. Instead, love is rushed. Disposable."

"Even the concept of dharma in love is mocked," Indra muttered, drumming his golden staff against the marble floor. "They follow impulse, not duty. Desire, not devotion."

A long silence followed.

Then Shiva opened his eyes.

"So… shall we let it be? Let love die?"

"No." Parvati's voice was firm. "If we do nothing, the very foundation of connection — of families, of humanity — will rot."

"There must be a way to remind them," whispered Saraswati. "To teach again what love truly is."

Vishnu's hand rose slowly. "Perhaps the answer is not to preach… but to show. Let love itself walk among them. Let it suffer, struggle, rise, and endure."

Narad tilted his head. "You mean… send two souls? To live among mortals? To learn, and teach?"

Brahma's eyes closed in thought. "Seven vows. Seven lifetimes. Each vow tested in an era where it's most forgotten."

"A soul-bond," said Lakshmi softly. "Tied by the red string of fate. A connection so deep it travels through births, beyond memory… yet pulls them together, again and again."

Shiva turned to Vishnu. "If we choose, we must choose wisely."

"They must represent the world itself," said Saraswati. "One from light. One from shadow. One born in softness, one in fire."

Kartikeya crossed his arms. "One must know pain. One must know power. Only then can they understand all faces of love."

Ganesh added, "But we must not interfere once the journey begins. Let karma play its part."

"Even gods must step back from destiny," Parvati agreed. "Once the red string is tied, it is beyond divine touch."

"Then," Vishnu said solemnly, "let us choose."

From a sacred pool in the center of the sabha, a silver mist began to rise. Inside it, two lights shimmered — two souls suspended in the cosmic balance. One glowed with storm and silence. The other flickered with warmth and quiet sorrow.

"Why these two?" asked Indra.

"Because they are both broken," answered Narad. "And only the broken truly seek to be whole."

Chandra added, "Because they have both been lovers… and destroyers."

"Because they have both turned away from love… and longed for it when it was gone," said Lakshmi gently.

The gods watched in silence as the red thread formed in the air — fine as moonlight, strong as truth — and wound itself around the two souls.

"Let them forget who they are," Vishnu declared."Let them live. Let them fail. Let them rise.""Let them meet again and again," said Saraswati."Let each lifetime test a vow," Brahma intoned."And in the end, may they awaken," Shiva whispered.

The thread pulsed.

The heavens darkened.

And the two souls — now unaware of the divine council, of their purpose, of their bond — were reborn.

In a distant village, a baby girl took her first breath. Her cry was soft, but her soul… ancient.

In a marble palace miles away, a boy was born under rare stars. His eyes opened with a coldness far beyond his age.

They would not meet for years. But fate was already moving.

And in the heavens, the gods watched.

Silently.

Hoping.

Waiting.

Praying that these two souls, across lifetimes, would rediscover the sacred vows — the forgotten truths — of love.

For if they failed… the world would forget love forever.

The red thread shimmered in the sacred ether, dancing like a flame in the wind. Finer than moonlight, stronger than fate, it wrapped itself quietly around two tiny sparks of consciousness—souls suspended between lifetimes. And then, as silently as it had appeared, the thread vanished, descending into the mortal realm.

Above, the celestial council remained gathered in the Sabha of Eternity. Silence clung to the air like incense after an evening aarti. The decision had been made, yet its weight remained.

Then, cutting through the silence, came a familiar voice, cheerful as ever.

"Narayan, Narayan!"

All divine heads turned toward the wandering sage. Narad Muni stood with his veena resting on one shoulder and a mischievous glint in his eye. His orange robes swayed gently as he hovered midair, entirely unbothered by the seriousness of the moment.

"Well, that was dramatic," he said, tapping his chin. "Seven lifetimes? In this age? That's bolder than even my attempt at composing a shloka in rap meter!"

Parvati stifled a smile. Lakshmi chuckled softly. Even Kartikeya, stoic as he was, shook his head in amusement.

Lord Shiva, ever still yet ever aware, opened his eyes and looked toward Narad. "You disapprove?"

"Me?" Narad placed a hand over his heart. "Never, Mahadev. I simply admire the divine optimism. Have you seen the world lately? They say 'forever' on Monday, break up by Thursday, and get engaged by Saturday."

Vishnu raised an eyebrow. "Then perhaps they need a real example."

"True," Narad admitted. "But seven lifetimes is no small stage. Even your most loyal bhaktas couldn't handle such a cosmic marathon of emotions."

Saraswati interjected, her voice composed and gentle. "They are not ordinary souls. They have seen shadows and light in equal measure. It is in their nature to struggle—and strive."

Brahma added thoughtfully, "They were never meant to remember. Only to rediscover. Each lifetime a veil. Each vow a challenge."

Narad tilted his head. "And yet, some part of them will know. A pull. A pause. A question without words."

Ganesh, munching on a modak, spoke up. "That pull is the red thread. Stronger than memory. Weaker than ego."

The gods nodded.

From the pool of fate, the vision shifted.

Somewhere on Earth...

The sun rose over a quiet village nestled at the edge of a forest. Roosters crowed. Temple bells rang. And in a modest hut of mud and thatch, a baby girl was born.

Her mother wept tears of both exhaustion and joy. Her father clasped the child gently, as if she might break, murmuring prayers of protection under his breath.

The child did not cry too loudly. Instead, her eyes opened wide and calm—eyes that held the softness of a thousand lifetimes.

They named her Aarohi.

Far away, in a grand city of glass towers and marble mansions, another child was born.

In a sterile, private hospital wing, under the watch of suited men and emotionless nurses, a baby boy came into the world. No tears, no noise—just the silent weight of a destiny waiting to unfold.

His father, a man of empires and power, nodded once. His mother held him like he was a crown.

They named him Ishaan.

In the instant both children took their first breath, a shimmer crossed their closed eyelids. Unseen by the world, the red thread had found its way.

In the Celestial Realm...

Narad peered into the pool, hands behind his back, humming a soft tune.

"She is born into love and lack. He into power and distance. Perfect," he muttered. "Let's see how long it takes before they annoy each other."

Parvati stepped beside him. "She will feel more than she speaks. He will speak more than he feels."

Lakshmi nodded. "Let her teach him warmth. Let him teach her courage."

Shiva simply said, "Let them forget."

Years Passed...

Aarohi grew up surrounded by struggle. Her family had little, but she had music. Her voice carried through the village lanes as she sang bhajans at the temple. She offered her portion of rice to stray dogs. She learned to repair her schoolbag with needle and thread.

She was the kind of girl who would pray for others and forget her own wishes.

But sometimes, late at night, she would dream of a garden she'd never seen. A boy whose face she couldn't recall. A sadness that didn't belong to her.

In the city, Ishaan Malhotra was raised like royalty. Tutors taught him eight languages. Security guards trailed his steps. He signed his first business document at age ten.

He did not play. He did not believe. He did not trust.

But on stormy nights, he would wake up breathless, unsure why he felt empty, or who he had lost.

The Gods Watched.

In the heavens, the pool shimmered.

Saraswati said, "Soon, they will meet."

"And when they do?" Indra asked.

Narad grinned. "Fireworks, lightning, and a little name-calling, most likely."

Parvati placed a hand on Shiva's arm. "Let it begin."

Shiva whispered, "Let love remember itself."

And so, the wheel turned.

The first lifetime began in truth.

Their paths would cross not by magic, but by chance. Not in temples, but on dusty roads. Not with realization—but resistance.

And above them all, the thread glowed. Quiet. Invisible. Eternal.

In the sleepy town of Devnagri, where dawn broke with the sound of temple bells and evenings ended with chants echoing through banyan-lined streets, Asha came into the world during a monsoon. The rain that fell that night was not angry; it was gentle, like the sky blessing her arrival. Her mother, Mira, a village healer with hands worn from grinding herbs and stitching wounds, held her newborn close as thunder rolled softly outside.

From the beginning, Asha's life was marked not by riches but by rhythm. The rhythm of temple bells, the rhythm of her mother humming prayers, the rhythm of her father's wooden sandals on the mud path as he walked to the nearby Gaushala. He was a caretaker of cows, not because it paid much but because he believed in seva — selfless service. Asha grew up in a two-room home with cracked clay walls, but it breathed warmth. Her bed was made of old sarees stitched together, her toys were twigs, threads, and imagination.

At five, she began helping her mother make herbal pastes. At six, she could recite entire slokas from memory. By seven, she sat outside the small temple near the river, tying marigold garlands and singing to the deities in a voice so clear, even birds paused to listen.

Yet, her world was not without shadows. Devnagri was beautiful, but it was also poor. Hunger visited most homes. Fevers came with the rains. Once, she watched a friend cough for days until he stopped breathing. That night, she asked her mother, "Why doesn't God help when we pray?"

Her mother only smiled sadly and said, "God listens, beti. But sometimes, He has bigger plans. We just can't see them yet."

That answer stayed with Asha. Not as a cure, but a question.

Years passed. Asha turned ten. She grew tall, with sharp eyes and hair the color of night. Her smile was rare but genuine. She ran like the wind, climbed mango trees, and bandaged wounded birds. People in the village began calling her "chhoti vaidya" — the little healer.

Her bond with nature was uncanny. Animals trusted her. Trees seemed to sway when she passed. Her father used to joke, "Even the wind slows down to listen when our Asha speaks."

One afternoon, as she walked back from the forest carrying neem leaves, she saw a boy teasing a puppy near the riverbank. Without hesitation, she stepped between them.

"Let it go," she said, her voice firm.

"It's just a stray," the boy sneered.

"And you're just a fool," she retorted.

The boy flushed and ran off. Asha scooped the puppy into her arms. It was trembling, dirty, and scared. She dipped her dupatta in the river and cleaned its paws. Then, out of nowhere — the ground beneath her shifted.

Asha hadn't noticed how close she'd gotten to the edge. The earth crumbled, and she fell. The puppy yelped and jumped from her hands, landing safely. Asha did not.

She hit the water with a cry.

The river wasn't deep, but the current was strong. She struggled, her small limbs flailing. The world spun — water, sky, trees — until hands grabbed her, lifting her up.

Coughing, sputtering, she blinked at the man who'd pulled her out. He wore saffron, had a long beard, and a rudraksha mala. But his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"You again," he said, though she didn't know him. "Always so dramatic."

"Who are you?" she coughed.

He chuckled, unbothered by the fact she'd nearly drowned. "Just a traveler. But here — take this."

He tied a thin red thread around her wrist.

"What is it?"

"A thread of memory," he said, cryptically. "Someday, someone will tug at the other end."

"Why me?"

"Because even the stars whisper your name."

She blinked. When she looked again, he was gone.

She returned home, dripping wet, the thread still on her wrist. Her mother scolded her, then wrapped her in warm blankets.

That night, as she drifted to sleep, the wind outside whispered through the leaves. The thread glowed faintly in the moonlight.

Far above, the gods watched.

"She remembers kindness," Lakshmi said softly.

"And bravery," added Kartikeya.

"But will she remember love?" Saraswati wondered.

Shiva closed his eyes.

"Let time tell."

And in Devnagri, the little healer slept — unaware that the wheel of lifetimes had begun its turn, and she was once more chosen.