The Kailasa Temple stood like a sentinel of eternity, carved from the earth as if the gods themselves had chiseled its every detail. Its spires clawed at the heavens, silhouetted by the silver of a full moon. On this sacred night of Maha Shivratri, the temple was alive with devotion. Pilgrims flocked to its grand steps, chanting prayers that echoed like the heartbeat of creation itself.
And then, there was Bhima Mishra.
He stood apart from the crowd, a figure of stark contrast in his modern, buttoned-down shirt and slacks, his black-rimmed glasses glinting in the moonlight. Where others carried offerings of flowers and incense, Bhima carried a satchel brimming with scientific instruments.
“Faith and folklore,” Bhima muttered under his breath as he adjusted the strap of his bag. “Nothing more than a centuries-old placebo effect.”
His words, though soft, carried the weight of a man who had spent his life dissecting miracles with the scalpel of logic. A nuclear physicist of renown, Bhima was celebrated in academic circles for his theories on radiation phenomena. And yet, here he was, standing in a sea of spiritual fervor, drawn by whispers of “unexplainable energy fields” surrounding the temple.
The chants grew louder as Bhima ascended the temple’s steps, each one polished smooth by the passage of countless devotees. He paused at the top, his gaze sweeping across the scene below. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and camphor, the flicker of oil lamps casting dancing shadows on the temple’s intricate carvings.
For a brief moment, guilt flickered across his usually stoic face. This place had been his late mother’s sanctuary, her faith in Lord Shiva unwavering. She had tried to pass that faith to Bhima, but he had rejected it at every turn, clinging instead to the cold certainty of science.
“Ma, I hope you’re not watching,” he whispered.
Bhima’s musings were interrupted by the distant toll of a bell, its deep resonance slicing through the night. The devotees fell silent, their collective breath held as if awaiting a divine presence. Bhima, however, was already focused on the small handheld device he had pulled from his satchel.
A radiation detector.
The screen blinked to life, the needle twitching as it calibrated. Bhima’s brow furrowed as the readings began to climb—faint but undeniable.
“Interesting,” he muttered, his fingers adjusting the sensitivity. “But not conclusive.”
A sudden surge of energy swept through the crowd, a ripple of awe and devotion. Bhima looked up, his gaze following the direction of their reverence.
The temple’s inner sanctum glowed faintly, the light seeping through its ornate doors like the first rays of dawn. The air seemed to vibrate, a hum so low it was felt more than heard.
Bhima’s heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t faith that stirred him—it was curiosity, the insatiable need to know.
He stepped away from the crowd, his path taking him toward the darker, less trodden corridors of the temple. The sounds of chanting faded behind him, replaced by the echo of his footsteps.
“Let’s see what’s really behind the curtain,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
The Kailasa Temple, a symbol of divinity to so many, was about to meet the unyielding skepticism of Bhima Mishra.
Unbeknownst to him, the temple was ready to answer.
The deeper Bhima ventured into the temple’s labyrinthine corridors, the more he felt the air change. Gone were the warm, smoky aromas of incense and the comforting hum of prayer. Here, the atmosphere was heavy, oppressive, like a thunderstorm pressing against his chest.
The flicker of oil lamps from the main sanctum grew dim, leaving only faint patches of light cast by intricately carved walls. Each panel seemed alive with movement—depictions of Shiva’s cosmic dance, Nataraja, his limbs a blur of creation and destruction frozen in stone. Bhima paused, his fingers grazing the cool surface.
“Incredible craftsmanship,” he murmured, momentarily distracted. “But nothing supernatural.”
Yet, even as he said it, the carvings seemed to ripple under his touch, an illusion of movement that sent a chill down his spine. He withdrew his hand quickly, glancing at his radiation detector.
The needle twitched violently.
A faint whisper of voices broke his concentration. Bhima’s eyes narrowed as he strained to make out the source. It wasn’t chanting, nor the murmurs of pilgrims—it was lower, secretive. He followed the sound, stepping lightly on the smooth stone floor as it led him to a shadowed alcove.
Peering around the corner, Bhima spotted two priests, their robes illuminated by the glow of a single torch. They spoke in hushed tones, their hands gesturing toward a carved archway that seemed to lead nowhere.
“It must not be disturbed,” one said, his voice trembling with urgency.
The other nodded gravely. “Tonight, of all nights, the energy is strongest. We must pray the seal holds.”
Bhima’s pulse quickened. Energy? A seal? His scientific mind churned through possibilities. Could this be the source of the anomalies? The auric radiation?
He pressed himself against the wall, careful to remain unseen. The priests lit a small offering of camphor at the base of the archway before departing, their chants fading into the distance.
Bhima emerged from his hiding spot, his gaze fixed on the archway. It was ancient, older than the rest of the temple, its stone worn and etched with yantras—geometric designs so intricate they seemed to warp under the dim light.
“‘Must not be disturbed,’ huh?” Bhima muttered, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “Sounds like an invitation.”
He stepped closer, his shoes scraping against the floor. The radiation detector beeped erratically now, the needle spiking into the red zone. Bhima felt his skin prickle as a faint vibration pulsed through the air.
“This can’t just be geological,” he said aloud, his voice tinged with both excitement and skepticism. “Some kind of natural radioactive phenomenon? Maybe a high-energy particle source underground?”
Rational explanations swirled in his mind, but each one seemed more inadequate than the last. Something about this place defied logic—a thought he refused to voice.
As Bhima examined the carvings, his fingers traced the edges of a yantra near the center of the archway. The stone was unnaturally smooth, almost warm. His hand lingered there, and for a fleeting moment, he felt… something. A pull, gentle but insistent, as though the archway itself wanted him to step through.
He laughed nervously, shaking off the sensation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bhima. It’s just stone.”
But as he turned to leave, a faint glow caught his eye. The yantras were lighting up, one by one, their patterns weaving together in an intricate dance of light and shadow.
Bhima froze. The glow grew brighter, and the air thickened, pressing against his chest. He took a step back, the ground beneath him feeling less stable with each second.
The sound of distant chanting disappeared entirely.
“Okay, maybe this was a bad idea,” Bhima muttered, stepping back cautiously.
But it was too late.
The ground gave way beneath his feet, the stone collapsing in a deafening roar. Bhima had only a split second to react, his arms flailing as he tumbled into the darkness below.
Dust and debris filled the air as he plummeted, his screams drowned out by the cacophony of shattering rock. He hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through his body and knocking the air from his lungs.
The world spun, a haze of pain and dust clouding his senses. Somewhere in the distance, a faint hum began to grow, low and resonant, like the earth itself was waking.
Bhima groaned, forcing himself to sit up. His hands scraped against the rough stone floor as his vision adjusted to the faint, otherworldly glow that bathed the chamber.
What he saw made him forget the pain entirely.
Bhima coughed, the thick dust clawing at his lungs as he propped himself up on one elbow. The ache in his body was dull compared to the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He blinked rapidly, his vision slowly adjusting to the dim light illuminating the vast chamber around him.
The ceiling stretched high above, its surface jagged from the collapse. Faint glimmers of moonlight seeped through the cracks, blending with a strange glow emanating from the walls. They were covered in carvings—not just the traditional depictions of Shiva, but something far more intricate. Cosmic swirls intertwined with yantra patterns, their designs pulsating faintly, as though alive.
“Where… am I?” Bhima whispered, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
The hum grew louder, resonating through the chamber like a heartbeat. Bhima scrambled to his feet, his eyes scanning the surroundings. The air here was different—dense, electric, as if charged with energy. His skin tingled, the hairs on his arms standing on end.
He reached instinctively for his satchel, which miraculously remained strapped to his shoulder. Pulling out his radiation detector, Bhima’s breath caught as the device went berserk. The needle shot into the red, trembling violently. A warning beep sounded, sharp and insistent.
“Impossible,” he muttered, shaking the device as if it might reset. But the readings remained the same.
He took a cautious step forward, his gaze locked on the source of the glow at the chamber’s center. A raised dais stood there, its edges carved with yantras that seemed to ripple in the faint light. And atop the dais…
The Shiva Linga.
But this was no ordinary relic. Unlike the stone idols Bhima had seen throughout the temple, this Linga was forged of something otherworldly. Its surface shimmered with a radiant glow, a swirling mix of azure and gold that defied explanation. The air around it seemed to bend and warp, creating faint mirages that danced at the edges of Bhima’s vision.
As he approached, he noticed inscriptions etched into the base of the Linga, their ancient Sanskrit letters glowing faintly. He couldn’t read them clearly from this distance, but something about the script sent a shiver down his spine.
Each step he took toward the dais made the hum grow louder, deeper, until it vibrated through his bones. His breaths came in shallow gasps, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air.
“This can’t be natural,” he said aloud, trying to steady his nerves. “It’s some kind of… geothermal anomaly. Radiation from a fissure… maybe—”
His foot landed on a loose stone, the sound echoing like thunder in the stillness. Bhima froze, his heart pounding.
The yantras etched into the floor around him flared to life, their light spreading in ripples toward the dais. The glow intensified, the patterns expanding and intertwining until they formed a massive, radiant mandala that encased the entire chamber.
“Wait, what is this?” Bhima staggered back, panic rising in his chest.
The Linga’s glow shifted, pulsing like a living entity. The inscriptions at its base began to rearrange, the letters twisting and reshaping themselves before his very eyes. Bhima squinted, struggling to make sense of the words.
His heart dropped as the new inscription emerged:
“Only the chosen may bear the Pralaya Shakti. All others will perish.”
A sudden crack split the air, sharp and deafening. Bhima stumbled as the ground beneath him trembled violently. The yantras glowed brighter, their light blinding as the hum reached a fever pitch.
“No, no, no—this isn’t happening!” Bhima yelled, shielding his eyes as the chamber erupted in light.
The floor gave way once more, collapsing in a cascading roar of stone and dust. Bhima felt himself falling, the air rushing past him as the glow of the Linga consumed his vision.
Then, silence.
When Bhima’s senses returned, the silence was deafening. The ground beneath him was cold and smooth, yet it radiated a faint warmth that seemed to seep into his skin. He opened his eyes cautiously, expecting darkness, but was greeted instead by an ethereal glow that filled the chamber.
The Shiva Linga now hovered inches above the dais, its radiant form pulsating with energy. Wisps of light spiraled around it, casting shimmering patterns on the chamber walls. The yantras etched into the floor had come alive, their intricate designs blazing with a brilliance that defied comprehension.
Bhima sat up slowly, his head spinning. His radiation detector lay a few feet away, its screen cracked and sparking. He reached for it instinctively, but a searing heat on his arm stopped him short.
He gasped, clutching his forearm. His skin glowed faintly blue, and faint yantra patterns traced themselves across his flesh before fading again. His breathing quickened as the warmth spread, radiating from his core like molten fire coursing through his veins.
“What… is this?” he whispered, his voice trembling.
The Linga pulsed in response, as if answering his unspoken question. Bhima’s gaze locked onto it, a mixture of awe and dread gripping him. He scrambled to his feet, drawn toward the artifact despite every instinct screaming at him to stay away.
The inscriptions at the base of the Linga rearranged again, their glowing letters forming new words that seemed to burn themselves into Bhima’s mind.
“The Pralaya Shakti calls to its vessel.”
“Shakti?” Bhima repeated aloud, his voice echoing in the chamber. “No… this is some kind of trick. A… hallucination from the radiation.”
He approached the Linga cautiously, each step reverberating through the chamber. The closer he got, the heavier the air became, pressing against his chest like an invisible weight. His hands trembled as he reached into his satchel, pulling out a handheld sensor—a backup for his shattered detector.
The device blinked erratically, its screen flashing red as it tried and failed to measure the energy emanating from the Linga. Bhima’s fingers hovered over the surface of the artifact, the heat growing unbearable.
“Only the chosen may bear it,” he muttered, his eyes darting back to the inscription. “This is insane. I’m not ‘chosen.’ I’m just—”
Before he could finish, his fingers brushed the Linga.
The effect was instantaneous.
A surge of energy shot through Bhima’s body, a tidal wave of heat and light that sent him staggering backward. He screamed, his voice lost in the deafening roar of the chamber. The yantras on the floor blazed brighter, their glow spiraling upward and converging on the Linga.
The artifact released a blinding burst of light, engulfing Bhima completely. His mind swirled with visions: fire and destruction, a cosmic dance of creation and annihilation, and the faint outline of a figure—Shiva himself, eyes closed in serene power as the universe crumbled and reformed around him.
Bhima’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor. His body convulsed as the energy seared through him, the yantra patterns on his arms glowing brighter than before. His skin turned a deeper shade of blue, veins of molten light crisscrossing his body.
Through the haze of pain, he heard a voice—deep, resonant, and calm.
“The cycle begins anew.”
Then, as suddenly as it started, the light dimmed. The Linga’s glow faded to a faint ember, and the chamber grew eerily quiet. Bhima lay motionless at the base of the dais, his chest heaving as he gasped for air.
The yantra patterns on his arms flickered one last time before fading, leaving faint scars in their place. The warmth in his veins subsided, replaced by an eerie calm.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a single thought echoed louder than any of his doubts:
He had been chosen.
Bhima’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he tried to piece together what had just happened. The chamber felt alive, thrumming faintly with a resonance that seemed to pulse in time with his own heartbeat.
The Shiva Linga hovered silently above the dais, its glow reduced to a faint but steady radiance. The air around it shimmered as if reality itself was bending to contain its presence. Bhima’s eyes flickered open, and he pushed himself onto his elbows, every nerve in his body alight with residual energy.
“This… isn’t possible,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible in the stillness.
But then, as if mocking his disbelief, the chamber responded. The yantras etched into the walls reignited, their intricate patterns rippling with light that converged on the Linga. A low hum filled the air, growing steadily louder until it became a thunderous roar.
Bhima forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. His body still burned, the faint traces of yantras glowing on his arms before fading again. He clenched his fists, feeling an unfamiliar strength coursing through his veins—a power that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
At the center of the dais, the Linga began to spin slowly, its radiant surface shifting like liquid light. The inscriptions at its base flared to life once more, the ancient Sanskrit letters rearranging themselves into a new message:
“The Mahapralaya Astra awakens.”
Bhima staggered back, his mind reeling. “Mahapralaya? The end… of all things?”
Before he could make sense of the message, the chamber erupted in light. A column of energy shot upward from the Linga, piercing through the ceiling and into the night sky above. Bhima shielded his eyes, but even through his fingers, he could see the energy swirling like a cosmic beacon, its radiance unmatched by anything he had ever seen.
Above the temple, the sky answered.
The stars seemed to tremble, their light dimming as fiery streaks of auroras flared to life. Clouds swirled unnaturally, casting shadows that danced across the temple ruins. The ground beneath Bhima’s feet shuddered, the vibrations growing more intense with every passing second.
“This is beyond radiation,” Bhima muttered, his voice tinged with awe and fear. “This is… something else. Something ancient.”
A sudden jolt of pain shot through his body, bringing him to his knees. His arms glowed once more, the yantras burning brighter as if responding to the energy around him. He screamed, the sound echoing through the chamber as the pain reached a crescendo.
And then, the voice returned.
“The chosen bears the burden of destruction and creation.”
Bhima’s vision blurred, his consciousness teetering on the edge of collapse. The Linga’s glow intensified, and the inscriptions rearranged themselves one final time:
“Wield it wisely, or perish in its flames.”
The column of energy suddenly collapsed inward, imploding with a force that knocked Bhima backward. The light disappeared, leaving the chamber cloaked in silence once more. The Shiva Linga descended gently back onto the dais, its glow dimmed to a faint ember.
Bhima lay motionless on the cold stone floor, his body wracked with exhaustion. He could feel the energy still coursing through him, though it was now subdued, like a coiled serpent waiting to strike.
His mind raced with questions, but one thought overpowered them all:
He had awakened something that should never have been disturbed.
Above, the temple remained eerily still, the distant sound of chanting long gone. The energy that had surged into the heavens left no visible trace, but Bhima knew the world would not remain unaware of what had transpired for long.
For better or worse, the Mahapralaya Astra had awakened—and Bhima had become its unwitting vessel.
Bhima’s body felt like it was made of lead, his limbs refusing to respond as he lay sprawled on the cold stone floor. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one carrying the faint metallic tang of something ancient, something primordial, lingering in the air.
The eerie silence in the chamber was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the Shiva Linga. The artifact no longer glowed with the fierce intensity it had before, but it still pulsed faintly, like the dying embers of a once-roaring fire.
Bhima groaned and rolled onto his side, his muscles protesting with every movement. The glowing yantra patterns on his arms had dimmed, leaving faint, almost imperceptible scars in their place. He raised a trembling hand to his face, the faint blue tint of his skin catching his eye.
“What… did you do to me?” he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse.
The Linga did not respond, its quiet glow seeming almost indifferent to the chaos it had unleashed. Bhima pushed himself into a sitting position, his back against one of the chamber’s intricately carved walls. His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the damage.
Chunks of stone and debris were scattered everywhere, evidence of the ground’s collapse earlier. Yet, despite the destruction, the yantras etched into the walls remained intact, their faint luminescence casting strange, shifting shadows.
His eyes fell on his radiation detector, still lying a few feet away, its screen cracked and sparking. He reached for it hesitantly, his fingers brushing the device. As soon as he touched it, the screen flashed violently before fizzling out entirely.
“Figures,” Bhima muttered, tossing the ruined device aside.
His mind raced, replaying the events of the past few minutes—or was it hours? He wasn’t sure anymore. The collapse, the glowing yantras, the surge of energy, the voice that seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere…
And the Mahapralaya Astra.
The name sent a chill down his spine. He wasn’t a devout man, but even he recognized the gravity of those words. Pralaya—the end of the world, the cosmic dissolution described in Vedic scriptures. And now, somehow, he had been caught in its wake.
The faint hum of the Linga grew slightly louder, drawing his attention. Bhima’s gaze locked onto it, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw movement within its swirling glow. Shapes, fleeting and indistinct, like shadows dancing at the edge of his vision.
His heartbeat quickened. “What are you?”
The air in the chamber grew heavier, as if the artifact itself was listening. But no answer came.
Bhima struggled to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. Every movement felt labored, his body protesting as though it carried a weight far greater than his own. He stumbled toward the Linga, drawn by a mixture of dread and curiosity.
As he neared the dais, the yantras beneath his feet flickered faintly, their light pulsating in rhythm with his steps. Bhima froze, his eyes narrowing.
The chamber wasn’t just alive—it was reacting to him.
“Great,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because this wasn’t unsettling enough already.”
He reached out toward the Linga, but stopped short, his fingers hovering inches from its surface. The memory of the last time he touched it—the searing pain, the blinding light—flashed through his mind.
This time, he kept his distance.
“I don’t know what kind of power you are,” he said aloud, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “But you’ve chosen the wrong person. I’m not… I’m not anyone’s vessel.”
The Linga’s glow dimmed further, as if retreating from his defiance. Bhima let out a shaky breath and turned away, his footsteps echoing through the chamber as he made his way toward the distant light of the collapsed ceiling.
His ascent was slow, each step a battle against his own battered body. By the time he reached the surface, the first hints of dawn were breaking over the horizon. The cool morning air hit him like a wave, sharp and invigorating after the suffocating depths of the chamber.
Pilgrims milled about the temple grounds, their murmurs carrying a mixture of awe and fear. Bhima realized they were staring not at him, but at the temple itself.
“Did you see it?” one voice whispered. “The light… it pierced the heavens!”
“A sign from Lord Shiva,” another said, their tone reverent. “Surely, it is a blessing.”
Bhima clenched his jaw, pulling the collar of his shirt higher to hide the faint blue tint of his skin. He felt their gazes on him as he stumbled past, clutching his burning arms.
The world had already started to change.
And Bhima knew he was at the center of it.
The temple courtyard was alive with murmurs. Devotees, priests, and pilgrims alike clustered in hushed circles, their faces lit with a mix of awe and unease. The dawn’s golden light barely touched the ground before it was drowned out by the lingering traces of the strange radiance that had erupted from the temple overnight.
Bhima staggered through the crowd, his body feeling heavier with every step. His arms burned beneath his sleeves, the faint outlines of yantra patterns pulsing sporadically on his blue-tinged skin. Each pulse sent a shiver up his spine, like a distant echo of the energy that had consumed him in the chamber below.
“Did you see it?” a pilgrim whispered, clutching their prayer beads. “The light… it was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“Lord Shiva’s blessing,” another said, their eyes wide with fervor. “Or… perhaps a warning?”
Bhima pulled his collar higher, his breath shallow. He felt exposed under their stares, even though their words weren’t directed at him. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, to disappear before anyone noticed the strange glow faintly emanating from his veins.
But his legs buckled before he could get far.
Bhima collapsed against a stone pillar, his vision swimming. The morning air, sharp and cool, felt suffocating against the fire raging within him. Sweat dripped down his temples, and his hands shook as he clutched at the pillar for support.
“Are you all right, brother?” a priest’s voice came from nearby, kind but cautious.
Bhima waved them off, unable to form coherent words. He forced himself upright, each motion labored, and stumbled toward the temple gates. The world tilted around him, the ground beneath his feet seeming to sway as if mocking his attempts to escape.
As he passed through the archway, the faint chant of Shiva’s name filled the air. It was a low hum at first, but it grew louder with each step, reverberating in his skull. Bhima groaned, clutching his head as the sound intensified.
It wasn’t just the chants.
There was another voice. Deep, resonant, and ancient.
“The burden of balance is yours now.”
“No,” Bhima whispered, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t—”
His vision blurred as the world around him faded. He stumbled again, collapsing onto the temple’s outer steps. A gasp escaped the crowd as they noticed him, whispers spreading like wildfire.
“It’s him,” someone said. “He was there last night.”
“He’s glowing,” another voice muttered, fear laced in their words.
Bhima tried to push himself up, but his strength failed. His arms flared with light, the yantra patterns glowing brighter than ever before. The burning sensation in his veins became unbearable, and a cry of pain escaped his lips.
Then, darkness.
When Bhima opened his eyes, he was no longer surrounded by the temple or its onlookers. Instead, he found himself in a vast, infinite void. The air was heavy with energy, swirling in vibrant hues of blue, gold, and crimson. The patterns danced and shifted, forming shapes that seemed both familiar and alien.
In the distance, a figure emerged. Towering and serene, the silhouette of Shiva loomed against the shifting backdrop. His eyes were closed, his expression calm, as he performed the Tandava, the cosmic dance of creation and destruction.
Bhima could feel the energy radiating from the dance—an overwhelming force that threatened to engulf him entirely.
“Why me?” he shouted, his voice trembling. “Why did you choose me?”
The figure didn’t answer, but the dance slowed, and Shiva’s eyes opened. The calm in them was profound, yet they carried the weight of universes.
“Because balance must have a guardian.”
The words echoed in Bhima’s mind, their meaning sinking into his soul. He felt himself drawn toward the figure, his body no longer his own. As he moved, the yantra patterns on his arms glowed once more, brighter and more intricate than before.
When Bhima finally woke, he was lying at the edge of the temple grounds, the soft rustle of leaves overhead. The sky above was bright, the day fully underway. He sat up slowly, his body heavy but functional.
His skin still carried the faint blue tint, and the scars of yantra patterns remained etched into his arms. Yet, for the first time since the chamber’s collapse, the burning in his veins had subsided.
Bhima flexed his fingers, marveling at the strange strength coursing through them. The world around him felt… different. Sharper. Every sound, every sensation, every movement seemed amplified, as if he was attuned to something beyond the physical.
A single thought broke through his haze:
This is only the beginning.
As he stood, unsteady but determined, the faint glow on his forearms flickered one last time before fading, leaving him alone with his burden.
Bhima turned toward the horizon, his voice low as he muttered, “Whatever this is… it’s not over.”