Chapter 1: The Gates of Swarglok

Many years later, after leaving the great Yatra to the West, I found myself once again standing before the gates of Swarglok.

The air shimmered, heavy with the weight of old memories and a new rebellion. The scent of incense from the mandirs below mixed with the tang of coming battle; somewhere, a conch blared, and the sharp smell of burnt ghee floated up from the ghats. Above, clouds of marigold petals drifted down, trampled by a million sandal-dusted feet—sadhaks, each with a prayer or a grudge in their hearts, following Arjun as he split open the heavenly gate with his sword. Rakshasas surged forward, Hanuman at their head, his mace spinning, red banner flying. The heavens seemed to shudder: meteors rained like Diwali rockets gone rogue, setting the clouds ablaze, while the once-imposing white marble palaces of the devas collapsed in a crash that echoed like the breaking of old family secrets.

In that chaos, Colonel Sharma planted himself in front of me, chin jutting, his uniform crisp as always, even at the gates of cosmic war. A hundred thousand shining troops behind him, chakra raised, he bellowed at me as if I were a wayward NCC cadet: “Beast!”

I flashed him my cockiest grin, the one that used to drive my father up the wall. For a second, I wondered if my hands were shaking, but no—only my heart hammered, wild as a Holi dhol. Beckoning with a lazy hand, I raised the Universe Ring, the Vasuki Ribbon, and the Agni-tipped Spear, letting their shine slice through the dust. As if on cue—a secret signal only old friends and rivals could sense—those hundred thousand heavenly soldiers turned, eyes burning with the same fire as mine, and defected. Just like that. Like someone in the mohalla cricket match switching teams mid-game, but with the fate of heaven at stake. The kind of thing that’d make every aunty on the balcony start shouting.

Faces of devas and rishis turned pale, panic flickering in their eyes. The soldiers’ gazes, once so empty, now blazed. I could see it clearly—how many of them had sat in dhyan for centuries, earned their moksha, only to be made slaves in Swarglok for a thousand years? Now, their suppressed souls erupted, fire long banked finally free. For once, I wasn’t alone.

Come, let us summon a new sun and moon together. Let the world turn anew, not on the old rules, but on our hunger for justice.