Time, ever relentless, carved its mark even upon the strongest.
By the time Aarav crossed his hundredth year, his once-sculpted body had softened with age. His proud frame, though stooped now, still carried an aura of dignity that made the young bow their heads in respect as he passed.
His long hair, once black as riverstone, flowed silver down his back. His skin, once bronze and taut, now bore the fine lines of a life well-lived—etched like sacred scripture upon his flesh.
And yet, in his clear grey eyes, the fire of the man who once built cities and shaped civilizations still flickered.
---
The city of Indraprastha had flourished beyond all dreams.
His sons and daughters had grown into mighty men and women, marrying into other powerful families.
Grandsons and granddaughters now ran laughing through the wide stone avenues he had once helped lay with his own hands.
At every festival, at every council meeting, the name of Aarav was still spoken with a mixture of reverence and affection.
In quieter moments, he would sit beneath the towering banyan tree in the city center — the same tree he had planted as a young man — and watch life ripple all around him.
Sometimes, Aditya or Suhani's daughter, Kavya, would come and sit at his feet, listening as he spoke softly of the lost lands of Sindhu, the great flood, and the dreams that had birthed their world anew.
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But life, like the river, must flow forward.
Some of his beloved wives, those who had shared his youth and fire, had already crossed into the next life. Their absence was a hollow ache in his heart, but he bore it with the quiet acceptance of a man who understood the cycles of existence.
> "Everything born of earth," he whispered once to his eldest grandson, "must one day return to it. This is not a sorrow, but a completion."
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In his final years, Aarav no longer held positions of power.
He had passed his knowledge, his wisdom, and his dreams into the hands of his children.
Now, he lived simply—walking slowly through the gardens, smiling at the markets' noise, blessing newborns brought to him by proud mothers.
He became a living legend—a symbol of the resilience, strength, and boundless hope of Indraprastha.
And then, one crisp autumn morning, as the golden light bathed the city he had built, Aarav closed his eyes beneath the great banyan tree... and did not open them again.
There was no pain.
No fear.
Only peace.
He passed away quietly at the age of one hundred and two—his hands folded across his chest, a faint smile on his lips, as if even in death he could see the future stretching bright and endless before his descendants.
---
The city mourned.
Bards sang songs of his life.
Priests lit lamps along the river to guide his spirit.
Children gathered to listen to tales of the man who survived the flood, built a city, and lived a hundred lives in one.
And though Aarav's body returned to the earth, his spirit remained — woven into every stone of Indraprastha, whispered in every prayer for the future.
Thus ended the mortal journey of Aarav, the builder, the dreamer, the father of a nation.
But his legacy had only just begun.
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End of Chapter 19