The village lay cloaked in the soft glow of dawn, the first rays of the sun spilling over the fields like liquid gold. The cows stirred lazily, the birds sang their morning hymns, and a gentle breeze whispered through the trees. Amidst this tranquil scene, a figure appeared on the horizon. A boy walking barefoot along the dusty path, his form silhouetted against the rising sun.

At first glance, he seemed like any other shepherd boy, his simple dhoti tied neatly and a flute tucked into the waistband. But as he approached, the air itself seemed to change. A golden light surrounded him, faint yet undeniable, like the soft halo of the morning star. His steps were unhurried, yet they carried an elegance, a rhythm, as if the earth moved in tune with him.

His face was a vision of serenity, as calm as the still waters of a sacred pond. His complexion glowed with a dusky radiance, as if the essence of the earth itself had shaped him. His eyes, deep, dark, and endlessly compassionate, seemed to hold within them the mysteries of creation. To meet his gaze was to feel both seen and cherished, as though every flaw, every pain, was understood and forgiven in an instant.

As he passed, the world seemed to pause. The cows, grazing aimlessly moments before, turned their heads and began to follow him, their heavy steps suddenly light with devotion. Birds circled above him, chirping in joyous harmony, while even the breeze seemed to shift course, wrapping him in its gentle embrace.

Children playing in the fields stopped in their tracks, their laughter fading into awe. One by one, they trailed after him, unable to explain why they felt compelled to do so. The villagers, busy with their morning chores, looked up and found themselves transfixed. The plowman left his oxen mid-furrow, the washerwoman let her cloth slip into the river, and the potter abandoned his wheel. All eyes were drawn to the boy, who walked as though the heavens themselves followed in his wake.

When the boy finally reached the banyan tree at the center of the village, he paused. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the gathering crowd, and smiled. A smile so radiant, so full of love, that it felt as though the very sun had risen twice that morning. He took his flute and raised it to his lips.

The first note was soft, barely audible, but it carried a divine resonance that pierced through every heart. The melody that followed was unlike anything they had ever heard, a tune that seemed to weave the threads of the cosmos into perfect harmony. The cows mooed in contentment, the wind stilled in reverence, and the people, struck silent, felt tears streaming down their faces without understanding why.

It was then that the village elder, trembling with emotion, stepped forward and fell to his knees.

"Who are you, O boy with the face of peace and the aura of the divine? You are no ordinary child. You are... something far greater!"

The village rang with laughter as a group of girls played near the riverbank. Among them was Aparajita, a teenage girl whose beauty seemed to rival the very essence of nature itself. Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with mischief, her complexion glowed like the golden dusk, and her laughter carried the melody of spring. Her friends adored her, and the world seemed to pause when she smiled.

But then it came---the sound.

That hauntingly beautiful melody, so familiar and yet impossible to resist. The first note floated through the air, caressing her soul like a gentle breeze. Aparajita froze mid-laughter, her friends' chatter fading into the background. Her heart quickened. She knew this melody, this song that seemed to pull at the strings of her very being. She turned toward the direction of the sound, her eyes widening in recognition.

"It's him," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Without another thought, the Rajkumari of Mithila Rajya broke into a run. Her friends called after her, but she didn't hear them. The world around her blurred, the river, the trees, the distant voices, everything faded except for the music. Her anklets jingled with each hurried step, as if they too were desperate to reach the source of the melody.

When she arrived at the banyan tree, she saw him.

"Keshav!"

The shepherd boy, surrounded by villagers and animals alike, his flute in hand. His serene face seemed to glow in the morning light, his aura commanding yet calming. The melody poured from the flute like liquid gold, filling the air with an unearthly beauty that made her heart ache.

Aparajita stood frozen, her breath catching in her throat. She had seen him many times before, yet each time felt like the first. There was something about him, something beyond words, beyond reason. It wasn't just his music, though that alone was enough to ensnare her. It was him, the way he existed, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of her heart.

Aparajita's frustration boiled over. How many times had she told him to stop following her? How many times had she tried to escape his persistent melodies that seemed to chase her wherever she went?

Her maids, sensing her temper, began to retreat, but Aparajita was already storming toward the source of her vexation. Her embroidered sandals crushed the soft grass beneath her as she crossed the garden and reached him. Keshav, unbothered, continued playing, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

"Keshav!"

She snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the melody.
"Stop this nonsense at once!"

But he didn't stop. If anything, his tune became softer, more alluring, as if coaxing her anger into submission. Aparajita's cheeks flushed with a mixture of irritation and something she couldn't quite name.

"Do you have no sense of propriety?" she demanded, stepping closer.
"I am a princess! You cannot simply follow me wherever you please and play that... that wretched flute!"

Keshav finally lowered the flute, tilting his head slightly as he regarded her with those calm, dark eyes that seemed to see through every façade.

"Wretched?"
He asked, his voice as smooth as his music.
"I thought it brought you peace, Rajkumari. Perhaps you simply don't understand it yet."

His infuriating calmness only stoked her anger further. Before he could raise the flute to his lips again, she lunged forward, snatching it from his hands.

"Enough!" she shouted.

And in one swift motion, she snapped the flute in two.

The crack of the breaking wood echoed through the clearing, and for a moment, everything fell silent. The birds, the breeze, even the rustling of the leaves seemed to pause. Aparajita stood there, her chest heaving, clutching the broken pieces in her hands.

Keshav's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew wider, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Ah, Rajkumari," he said softly,

"Basuri to todd diya aapne, kintu kya sangeet ko moun karwa payengi?

(You've broken my flute, but will you be able to silence the music?)"

Aparajita glared at him, her anger refusing to dissipate despite his maddening composure.

"I will not be followed like some common villager, Keshav! I don't care how serene you pretend to be or how beautiful your melodies are. You are insufferable, and your flute is no more!"

Keshav stepped closer, his movements unhurried, his presence inexplicably calming despite her fury. He said, his voice low and melodic,

"Aap basuri to todd sakti hai, Rajkumari, kintu yeh dhwani kebal basuri se utpann nehi hoti. Yeh toh aapke charo aur hai, aapme hai. Cahe aapko accha lage yeah na, yeh toh aapko punah dhund hi legi.

(You can break the flute, Rajkumari, but the music doesn't come from the flute alone. It's all around you, within you. Whether you like it or not, it will find you again.)"

Aparajita's hands trembled as his words sank in, though she refused to show any weakness. Tossing the broken pieces to the ground, she turned on her heel and marched back to the palace. She called over her shoulder, her voice still commanding, though it wavered just slightly.

"Stay away from me, Keshav! Or I will throw you into the dungeons next time!"

Keshav watched her retreat, his serene expression unwavering. Bending down, he picked up the broken flute, examining the pieces thoughtfully. His smile lingered, as though he understood something she could not yet grasp.

The melody would return. Of that, he was certain. And so, too, would Aparajita.

His Sree!

As Aparajita stormed away, her royal veil fluttering in the breeze, a sinister energy rippled through the air. The golden morning light dimmed, and the clear blue sky above seemed to cloud over as though shadowed by an invisible presence. The birds fell silent, and the once-gentle breeze grew harsh, swirling dust and dry leaves into the air.

From the darkness, a towering figure emerged-Trinavarta, the asura of fierce winds. His form was a swirling mass of storm clouds, his eyes glowing red like smoldering embers. His presence exuded raw malice, and his voice rumbled like thunder as he spoke, addressing the serene boy under the banyan tree.

"Shepherd boy,"
Trinavarta sneered, his voice carrying the weight of a storm.
"You amuse yourself with your flutes and foolish pranks, but your time is over. I have come to claim this land for the asuras, to extinguish your light and bring chaos to all who dwell here."

Keshav, who had been calmly picking up the broken pieces of his flute, did not look up immediately. He seemed utterly unbothered by the dark presence towering above him. Dust swirled around him, tugging at his simple dhoti, but he remained seated, as unmoving as the mountain itself.

Finally, he glanced upward, his dark eyes meeting the asura's fiery gaze with an expression of mild amusement. Tilting his head, he spoke, his voice calm and tinged with mischief.

"Ah, Trinavarta, Lord of Storms!" Keshav said, placing the broken flute on his lap.
"What brings you here, so far from your shadowy domains? Did the wind carry you, or was it the allure of my music?"

The asura growled, his form swelling larger, his storm clouds darkening.

"Do not mock me, boy! I have come to spread chaos and destruction. And I sense you are no ordinary shepherd. Reveal your true self or prepare to face my wrath!"

Keshav laughed softly, the sound as light as the breeze that had now begun to settle.

"My true self? How curious that you, an asura, are so eager to know what even mortals fail to see. I am nothing more than a boy whose flute has been broken by an angry princess."

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head.

"Ah, my eternal companion, Aparajita! She has quite the temper, doesn't she? One moment she's transfixed by my music, the next she's snapping my flute in two. I do wonder, Trinavarta, do you ever face such rejection in your line of work?"

The asura faltered for a moment, clearly taken aback by Keshav's tone.

"You dare jest with me? I am the master of tempests, the destroyer of peace!"

Keshav waved a hand dismissively.

"Yes, yes, storms and destruction, very impressive. But do you know what's even more terrifying?"

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with an impish light.

"Rajkumari Aparajita when she's angry. Trust me, you wouldn't want to face her wrath. If she could shatter my flute so easily, imagine what she might do to a storm!"

Trinavarta roared in frustration, his winds whipping up again.

"Enough of your foolish words, boy! Prepare to face the power of my storm!"

Keshav stood now, brushing the dust off his dhoti. His serene smile never faltered.
"Trinavarta,"

He said softly, his tone suddenly shifting, carrying an unmistakable authority,

"You are like a child playing with fire, unaware of the danger it poses. You come here thinking you can spread chaos, but you cannot even withstand a calm breeze from my lips."

The asura recoiled, sensing the divine energy radiating from the boy. Keshav raised a hand, pointing toward the distant horizon.

"Carry your winds far away, Trinavarta. This land is not yours to torment. Leave now, before I decide to teach you a lesson you will not forget."

Trinavarta hesitated. The storm clouds around him began to waver, his form shrinking slightly under Keshav's gaze.

"Who are you?"

The asura finally asked, his voice trembling.

Keshav stepped closer, his serene face glowing with a faint golden light.

"I am Keshav, a simple shepherd boy," he replied with a playful shrug.

"But if you must know... I am also the one who sustains the winds you command and the life you seek to destroy. Do you truly wish to challenge me?"

The weight of those words, spoken with such effortless confidence, shattered what little courage Trinavarta had left. With a final, thunderous roar, the asura dissolved into the winds, his storm scattering into nothingness.

As the skies cleared and the sun shone once more, Keshav sat back under the banyan tree, picking up the broken pieces of his flute, he remembered something.

"Jo humein saralta se mill jay, humein uska mol nehi. Sambhabta isiliye, Narayan bhi Lakshmi ko uska samman na de paye.

Main tyag karti hu Vaikunth aur uske swami ka!

Aab aapko bhi taap karna hoga prabhu.

Iss bar sangharsh Hari swayam karenge,

Sree ko prapt karne hetu!"

(The things we get easily, we don't value them. Probably that's why even Narayan couldn't give Lakshmi, the respect she deserves.

I am leaving Vaikunth and its owner!

Now you'll be the one to do penance Prabhu.

This time Hari himself will have to struggle,

To get back Sree!)

With a faint smile, he murmured to himself,

"Rajkumari Aparajita, always creating storms... and yet, the calm must always follow."