The winds of Indraprastha carried the sweet scent of ripening fields and the smoke of new hearths. It was a city reborn from dreams—and at its heart stood the man who had shaped its destiny.
Aarav.
---
One golden morning, Aarav gathered his closest allies in the central square. Devika, radiant in a flowing white dress, stood beside him, a proud smile playing on her lips.
Aarav raised his hand to silence the crowd.
> "Today," he declared, his voice ringing like a temple bell, "we have built homes. We have fed our children. We have reclaimed our future.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow must remember our journey."
Murmurs spread through the assembly.
He pointed to the highest hill on the city's edge.
> "There, we will build a Tower of Memory—a monument of stone, taller than any tree, carved with the knowledge of our people.
If floods return… if kingdoms fall… our descendants will still find the way."
The people erupted in cheers.
---
The construction of the tower began at once.
Massive blocks of granite were hauled by teams of oxen. Aarav personally oversaw the inscriptions: history, agriculture, medicine, music, mathematics, tales of old Mohenjo-Daro, and even blueprints of his perfected chariots.
Every evening, by torchlight, the master masons etched the stories into the stone, their hammers ringing under the endless stars.
---
Meanwhile, life in Indraprastha bloomed like never before.
And so did Aarav's pleasures.
---
One warm night, after visiting the construction site, Aarav returned to his private gardens where the young daughters of merchants and noble houses often gathered.
The moment he entered, conversation faltered. Eyes followed him like sunflowers turning to the sun.
A delicate hand tugged his arm—Suhani, the lively daughter of a spice trader, her cheeks flushed pink.
> "Aarav-ji," she whispered, bold yet shy, "You promised to teach me the secret of your flute."
He smirked, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
> "The flute teaches patience," he said. "And rhythm. Both... require close attention."
Giggling, she followed him into a hidden alcove of vines.
There, the "lesson" quickly turned into stolen kisses, breathless laughter, and whispered promises.
---
But Suhani wasn't the only one.
Radha, the merchant-princess from a distant town, admired his handsomeness and wit.
Anika, a warrior's daughter, challenged him to archery—and lost her heart instead.
Even elder widows, strong and wise, found in Aarav not just the fire of youth, but the magnetism of a man who had tasted destiny.
Among the perfumed nights and soft silken sheets, Aarav indulged fully in the gifts of life.
---
In the privacy of his chambers, Devika teased him one evening, lounging against silk cushions.
> "How many maidens must you rescue before your heart is satisfied?"
Aarav laughed, setting aside his goblet of wine.
> "Each kiss, each smile, is a prayer offered to life itself," he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"But know this—none shine brighter than you, my queen."
Devika rolled her eyes, but leaned into him anyway, claiming a kiss that was both fierce and tender.
---
And so, while the Tower of Memory grew taller each month, Aarav lived a life both grand and wild—a builder of civilization by day, a lover of life by night.
The seeds he sowed—in stone, in knowledge, and in hearts—would ripple across generations, long after his mortal form had turned to dust.
But for now, he was young, powerful, and undeniably alive.
The saga of Akhand Bharat had only just begun.