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𑁍 🌿 𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓪 – 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓖𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓓𝓪𝔀𝓷 🌿 𑁍 ✦❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

THE DAY OF GREEN DAWN—HARELA

The sun had not yet risen, but the world already seemed golden. It was Harela.

In Chandranira City, nestled in the folds of the Aetheriya Continent on Azure Planet, the morning breeze carried with it the scent of wet soil, crushed marigolds, and prayers whispered into the winds of time.

In one room of the ochre-washed Nirantara Mansion—sacred rice-made symbol had been drawn on the floor, adorned with turmeric, and an earthen pot placed atop it, veiled for nine days in patient silence.

It was the Day of New Harvest.

The Day when Earth and Sky renewed their vows.

The Day of the Green Dawn.

☾⋆⁺₊✧──────✧₊⁺⋆☽──────☾⋆⁺₊✧──────✧₊⁺⋆☽──────☾⋆⁺₊✧

AT THE NINTH DAY, INSIDE NIRRANTARA MANSION...

Within the warm home of Vedika, Shivangi, and their daughter Aishwariya, a quiet ritual was unfolding. Seven different saplings were being carefully plucked from the pot—seeds that had been nurtured in the quiet darkness for nine sacred days.

“Don’t drop it,” Shivangi warned playfully, watching Aishwariya trying to balance the Harela strands over her hairs, “or the goddess might curse you with a hundred-year detox diet!”

But the strands still fall out of her hairs. Aishwariya gasped in mock horror.

Vedika chuckled softly—then grew solemn.

“It’s not just tradition,” she whispered, fingers brushing the soft soil. “Each Harela is a prayer... a prophecy.”

Vedika turned to Shivangi and, in silence, brushed harela strands upward—

from ankles to knees, knees to waist, waist to shoulders, and finally to her head.

As she crowned Shivangi’s hair with the green strands, the question lingered:

“And what’s yours, Vedika? What did you pray for?”

Vedika didn’t answer.

Her gaze lingered on the pot—lush, vibrant, growing faster than the others.

And yet... her eyes flickered.

Like shadows dancing on a flame.

Perhaps it wasn’t just seeds she had buried.

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FLASHBACK FRAGMENT: A MEMORY UNFOLDS

A flicker at the edge of consciousness.

A flicker of memory.

A world far away.

A different field.

Burning. Cracked. Dead.

A child’s trembling hand clutched hers.

A distant voice—ancient, rasped by time—chanted the Harela mantra:

“Je tu dagadia dagad ka, mai pani si chalun...

Tu banve sansar ko dag, mai hariyali ban jaun.”

(If you are the rugged stone of the path, I’ll flow like water.

If you strike down the world, I will still become green that bloom upon it.)

Over and over, the chant echoed.

Until it faded into ash.

A world lost.

She closed her eyes.

Opened them again.

The illusion had lifted.

And then—

Silence shattered.

Shadows surged—

Demons.

Ghosts.

Descending upon the trembling boy—too young to understand.

Instinct surged in Vedika’s veins.

Her blade, golden, burning.

Demons slayed.

Ghosts screamed—

Caught in her Golden Ghost Trap Cage, glowing with ancient runes.

The boy whimpered—

Too stunned to comprehend the truth.

His parents were gone.

His village was gone.

All in one dark night.

Back to the present—

Pulled by Aishwariya’s laughter.

꧁༒☬༒꧂──────꧁༒☬༒꧂──────꧁༒☬༒꧂

THE RITUAL BEGINS

Far away in Nirvania, within the sacred province of Vanjipura…

Devanand clapped his hands. “Let’s go to the Northern Front Border this vacation! What do you say?”

Ved grinned wide.

Quickly packed, the two called Chhayeswari out of the house and took her with them. The trio made their way to Amratunga—a village alive with spirit, untouched and timeless.

When they arrived, a festival was in full bloom.

At first, Ved, Devanand, Chhayeswari and Irika were stunned.

Then—

A little child, walking with his mother, tugged at her sari.

“From today till the ninth day, we’ll celebrate Harela, right?”

She nodded firmly.

The child giggled, eyes glowing.

Ved’s face lit up like the morning sun.

“What is happening here…?” Devanand asked, baffled.

Before he could finish, Ved dragged them to a nearby market, scanning for the right ritual materials with Chhayeswari and Irika.

Then—

“Quick! Go rent a place for a few days. I’ll handle this side!”

He shoved Devanand playfully toward the homestay stalls.

A moment later, under the ancient Gramsabha Tree, the Grameshvara of Amratunga appeared—draped in forest-green robes, his steps soft upon the soil.

Beside him, a boy carried a ceremonial kalash, its mouth brimming with moist earth.

The villagers bowed in reverence for elderly Grameshvara.

“Today,” he declared, “we do not just plant crops.

We sow memories, hopes, and lifelines.

Every seed bears your breath.

Every sprout echoes your essence.”

Ved halted for a moment as Grameshvara’s words echoed in his ears.

His heart skipped a beat—something stirred deep within.

A memory. A shadow.

He looked up at the sky, as if searching for an answer written in the clouds.

Just then, Chhayeswari’s voice pulled him back to the present.

“I know you’re worried,” she said gently, “but focus on finding the right ritual materials… that’s why we’re here.”

Then—a woman stepped forward.

She began humming an old Kumaoni lullaby, telling of Goddess Parvati sowing seeds with divine grace, as Mahadev smiled down at a blooming Earth.

Overhead, the sky shifted into a golden hue—a sign.

The gods had accepted the offering.

☾⋆⁺₊✧──────✧₊⁺⋆☽──────☾⋆⁺₊✧──────✧₊⁺⋆☽──────☾⋆⁺₊✧

WHISPERS BETWEEN WORLDS

As the chants rose, so did something else.

In a hidden corner of the sacred grove, where no footsteps dared tread, the air shimmered.

A figure cloaked in silence stood there.

Unseen.

Unfelt.

Unwelcome—and yet, deeply connected.

He watched the saplings sway.

The Earth breathe.

The mortals pray.

And then...

He smiled—not cruelly, but wistfully.

Even celestial beings miss home.

“Even gods wish to be green again,” he whispered, before vanishing into shadows.

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ON THE NINTH NIGHT

Celebration poured into the night—songs and laughter spiraling into the sky.

Herbal sweets and village delicacies were shared around the bonfire courtyard in the center of Amratunga.

Children danced.

Women circled the flames, anklets ringing with rhythm.

“Jee raya, jaagi raya,

Yo din baar, bhetne raya.

Doob jas phail jaa,

Beri jas phal jaa…”

(“Live on, awaken anew,

Today, all day, may we meet again too.

Spread like mist on a dewy dawn,

Ripen like a berry—soft yet strong…“)

Verses wound like ivy through the night:

“Syaalak jas buddhi pa,

Suryan jas taakat pa.

Himalaya mein hyu chhan tak,

Ganga jyu mein paani chhan tak,

Jee raya, jaagi raya

Yo din baar bhetne raya…”

(“Be wise like the jackal’s gaze,

Gain the strength of the sun’s blaze.

As long as snow crowns the Himalayas high,

As long as the Ganga flows pure and nigh—

Live on, awaken anew,

Today, all day, may we meet again too…“)

“Aakash jas uncha ho ja,

Dharti jas chauras ho ja,

Syaav jas samajhdar ho ja,

Syu jas tej ho ja,

Laaag Haryav, Laag Dasein,

Laag Bagwaav.

Jee raya, jaagi raya…”

(”Rise as high as the endless sky,

Be vast and steady like earth nearby.

Be clever like the dusk’s sly shade,

Be sharp like the mountain blade.

May you bloom like Harela green,

Like Dasein’s joy, like Bagwaav’s sheen.

Live on, awaken anew…“)

Devanand stuffed his mouth with sweets, blissfully unaware of the worldly thoughts. Chhayeswari and Irika danced around the bonfire with village women.

But Ved—

He stood alone under the ancient vriksha, his harela clutched close to his chest, gazing at the moon.

Then, from somewhere distant—he could hear, a faint voice rose:

“Jyun hariyali chhan, tyun janam nai chhan.

Aar jahan nai janam chhan… wahan phir aagun chhan.”

(“Where there is greenery, there is new birth.

And where there is new birth... there is return again.“)

A promise whispered in chlorophyll.

A vow etched in roots.

Then—

Irika’s tiny figure tugged on his robe and dragged him to join the others.

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IN ANOTHER PLACE...

Far from Amratunga, in a palace bathed in starlight, a mysterious girl, wrapped in royal silks, stood by her window.

Her eyes were on the same moon.

In her hands—

Harela stalks, equally vibrant.

She held them close to her chest and whispered,

“We will meet again.”

And she smiled.