Parashuram learns that Ravana has imprisoned Treta and sets out to free him. A powerful new chapter begins in this epic Hindu mythology fantasy, The Pinaka Dhanusha. Ravana and the Captive Age of Treta - A Hindu Mythology Story
The Ten Kundali Yatra of Parashuram - Captive Age of Treta Age. By: Shrikant Vishwakarma
Chapter One - The Captive Age
At the great entrance to Lanka, a vast yellow banner fluttered proudly in the warm ocean wind. Its fabric snapped and billowed above the stone gateway, carrying upon it an inscription in ancient Sanskrit: Vayam Rakshamah. We alone protect all. Beneath those words was the emblem of a lion, its fierce form appearing almost alive whenever the banner caught the wind. Lanka was a city that believed itself invincible, a kingdom ruled by a king who had conquered realms, challenged the gods, and bent the will of countless beings to his command. Yet, behind those magnificent walls, something far darker was taking place. The silence of the city was suddenly broken by a terrible cry—a cry filled with such unbearable pain that it seemed to tear through the very air. Somewhere within the shadows, an earthen pot stood upon the ground. A drop of blood fell into it.
Then another. Then another. The sound of dripping blood became strangely rhythmic, almost like the beating of a sinister heart. As the cries grew louder, the terrible sight was revealed. An aged sage, Ved Rishi, hung helplessly from a wooden beam, his body suspended like that of a slaughtered animal. Deep wounds covered his flesh, and from each wound blood flowed steadily into the pot below. His breath came in ragged gasps, yet there was still a strange calmness in his eyes. Before him stood Ravana, sword in hand, watching the dying sage with an expression that was not merely cruel. There was something deeper in his face—an obsession, a fear that had consumed the mighty king from within.
“You wretched man... set me free,” Ved Rishi gasped. “Why do you wish to burden yourself with the sin of killing a Brahmin? You are the son of a great sage. I shall forgive you. Release me.” Ravana did not move. His fingers tightened around the sword. “Of course I shall set you free, Ved Rishi,” he said at last, his voice deceptively calm. “But before I do, tell me what is written in the destiny of my death. When shall I die? And how can I prevent it? Speak quickly.” The sage looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. “Fool,” he whispered. “Just as the setting of the sun cannot be prevented after sunrise, just as a river cannot be stopped from reaching the ocean, so too can death not be prevented once life has been born. Do you possess no knowledge even of this?” Something dark passed across Ravana’s face. “You dare preach to Lanka’s king? Perhaps you have forgotten who I am.” Ved Rishi gave a faint smile. “I know exactly who you are. You are Ravana—a man of immense knowledge. But it seems that all the wisdom that once resided in your mind has now travelled down to your knees. Otherwise, a man so learned would never descend to such vile deeds.” Ravana’s eyes burned with fury. “Ved Rishi!” he thundered. Yet the sage did not flinch. “Why speak only of your wisdom? You are a great warrior too, are you not? A warrior who spends his nights awake like a frightened hound, trembling at the thought of his own death.” “Enough!” Ravana roared. “Speak one word more, and your death shall come this very instant.” Ved Rishi stared directly into his eyes. There was no fear left in him now.
Only certainty. “The fear of death is already visible upon your face, Lanka’s king. That is why I am no longer afraid. I can say this with absolute certainty—you shall die in the Age of Treta. You shall be slain in this very Treta Yuga. You shall not live to see the age beyond it. You shall never see it.” For a moment, Ravana remained completely still. Then his rage erupted. “And you shall not live to see tomorrow’s dawn, you insolent sage.” His sword drove into Ved Rishi’s abdomen. The old sage gasped, his body trembling as his final breath escaped him. His eyes turned towards the heavens. “O Lord... protect this world from this unrighteous man...” His head fell, and Ved Rishi was gone. Ravana stood over his lifeless body, breathing heavily. But the sage’s words had already taken root inside his mind. You shall die in Treta... You shall be slain in Treta... The words echoed again and again until they seemed louder than the beating of his own heart.
Far above the mortal world, the Age of Treta itself was running for its life. The celestial paths stretched endlessly across the heavens, but there was nowhere for Treta to hide. Behind him came Ravana, sword in hand, relentless as fate itself. Treta looked desperately towards the celestial realms. “Someone help me! Save me from Lanka’s king! Devaraj Indra, help me!” At last, he reached the gates of Indra’s realm, believing that sanctuary lay beyond them. But before he could cross the threshold, the enormous gates began to close. Treta stared in disbelief. Even Indra’s realm would not shelter him. He turned and saw Ravana approaching. “Run wherever you wish, Treta,” Ravana called after him. “You will find every door closed before you.
No one can hide from Ravana’s hunt.” Treta fled once more, his fear deepening with every step. If even the gates of Devaraj Indra had been closed to him, then who in all the heavens could possibly save him? For a moment, despair almost overcame him. Then a thought flashed through his mind. There was one warrior—only one—who might possess the strength to stand against Ravana. Treta changed direction and hurried towards the only hope he had left.
His path brought him to the training grounds of Maharaj Bali. Two enormous maces swung violently through the air, suspended from ropes, and Bali moved between them with extraordinary agility. He ducked beneath one, twisted away from another and continued his practice with the effortless confidence of a warrior who knew the full extent of his strength. Suddenly, Treta came running towards him. “Maharaj Bali! Maharaj Bali!” Bali turned and immediately noticed the terror upon his face. “Treta? Calm yourself. Tell me—who is pursuing you? Who has reduced you to such a state?” Before Treta could answer, another voice echoed across the training ground. “Lanka’s king.” Bali turned. Ravana stood there, sword in hand. Treta instinctively moved behind Bali. “He wishes to take me prisoner, Maharaj Bali,” he pleaded. Ravana stepped forward. “Step aside, Maharaj Bali.
I bear you no enmity. Simply hand over my prey.” Bali tightened his grip upon his mace. “And if I refuse?” Ravana studied him carefully. He knew that a direct battle with Bali would be unnecessary and potentially dangerous. Strategy would serve him better than force. “I know you well, Maharaj Bali,” Ravana said. “You would not willingly risk even the slightest injury for a man with whom you have no connection.” Bali narrowed his eyes. “And what do I gain by handing him over?” Ravana smiled. “An unbreakable friendship. From this day onward, you and I shall be friends, Maharaj Bali.” He stepped forward and embraced Bali as though the two had been allies for years. Treta watched in disbelief. Bali remained silent for several moments before finally lowering his mace. “Bali never allows himself to suffer a loss.
You may take your prey, Lanka’s king.” He turned and began to walk away. Treta’s heart sank. “No! Maharaj Bali, please! Do not leave me!” Ravana immediately placed his sword against Treta’s throat. The helpless being trembled. “Do not kill me! I accept your servitude, Lanka’s king!” Ravana threw back his head and laughed. “Aham Brahmasmi!” His laughter echoed across the training ground, carrying within it the arrogance of a man who believed that destiny itself had become his servant.
Elsewhere in the heavens, Devarshi Narada travelled with his veena in his hands, yet his usual cheerfulness was absent. Something troubled him deeply. He had gone to Vaikuntha, but Lord Narayana had not been there. He had gone to Brahmaloka, but Brahmadeva was absent as well. Even Mahadev was nowhere to be found upon Mount Kailash. “Narayana... Narayana,” Narada murmured uneasily. “What is happening? Never before have the three great Lords been absent from their respective abodes at the same time.” Suddenly, his attention was drawn towards the mortal world below. What he saw left him speechless. Across the earth, people had simply stopped. Men stood frozen in the middle of their work, animals remained motionless, and those who had been walking were frozen exactly where they had stood. It was as though an invisible hand had seized the entire world and commanded it to remain still. “Narayana... Narayana! What am I seeing?” Narada cried. Then, without warning, his veena slipped from his hands. Instead of falling towards the earth, it rose upwards and stopped in mid-air, frozen just like everything below. Narada stared at it in disbelief and jumped several times in an attempt to retrieve it, but his fingers could not reach it. “Even my veena!” he exclaimed. His expression became grave. Something immense had happened within creation, something powerful enough to bring the world itself to a standstill. There was only one thing left to do. He had to find the Trimurti and discover what had happened before the consequences became irreversible.
At the edge of the cosmos, Brahma, Vishnu and Mahadev stood in their magnificent forms, engaged in a matter far more serious than anything Narada could have imagined. Brahma looked towards Vishnu with concern. “But, Lord, how can the sins and unrighteousness of Lanka’s king Ravana ever be destroyed?” Vishnu answered with the calm certainty of one who already knew the course destiny would take. “In the same manner in which Hiranyaksha and Hiranyakashipu were destroyed, Brahmadeva.” Brahma understood the implication immediately. “You mean you shall descend once again into the mortal world?” Mahadev spoke before Vishnu could answer. “Yes, Brahmadeva. To bring about Ravana’s destruction, Shri Hari shall once again assume an incarnation. And that incarnation shall be Maryada Purushottam Shri Ram.” Yet Vishnu reminded them that the destined hour had not arrived. Before Rama’s incarnation, another task remained to be completed. “Parashurama still has important work to accomplish,” he said. Brahma looked astonished. “Parashurama? But he has been immersed in penance upon Mount Mahendragiri for thousands of years. How shall he ever return?” At that very moment, Narada appeared in the distance, rushing towards them. “Trahimam! Trahimam, my Lords!” he cried. When he finally reached them, Vishnu looked upon his troubled face. “What has happened, Devarshi?” Narada folded his hands. “Lord, something terrible has happened upon Earth.
Every living being has frozen in place. Even my veena has stopped in mid-air. It is as though the entire world has been restrained by some unseen force.” Vishnu’s expression became grave. “You speak the truth, Devarshi. Much of creation has indeed come to a standstill. And the reason is Ravana.” Narada stared at him. “Ravana? How?” Mahadev answered in a voice that carried the weight of the cosmos itself. “Because Ravana has taken the Age of Treta captive.” Narada could hardly believe what he had heard. “He has imprisoned Treta? But why?” Vishnu looked into the vastness of creation. “So that he may stop time itself—and thereby escape his own death.”
In Lanka, the consequences of Ravana’s madness had taken a grotesque form. At the centre of the city stood Treta, bound like an ox to a grinding mill, forced to move endlessly in circles. His strength was almost gone, his body exhausted beyond measure, yet the moment he slowed, a stone came flying through the air and struck him. Around him stood the citizens of Lanka, stones in their hands, watching their captive age as though it were some form of entertainment. One man counted his stones proudly. “Ten for me.” Another replied, “Nine for me.” A third laughed. “Keep counting. Lanka’s king has promised that the more stones we throw, the greater the reward.” Then Ravana’s voice echoed through the square. “Indeed! You shall all be rewarded. But make certain that he never stops.” The citizens raised their hands and cried, “Hail Lanka’s king! May Ravana live forever!” Ravana approached Treta, laughing. “Bless that sage,” he said mockingly. “The fool cursed me again and again, claiming that Ravana would die in Treta, that my death would come in this very age.
And now the poor man is dead. Yet look at what has fallen into my hands—Treta himself. If Treta does not move forward, then how can Ravana ever die?” The citizens roared their approval, but Treta lifted his exhausted head. There was still strength in his voice. “That is your mistake, Ravana. You believe you can command time according to your will. But time belongs to no one. We are all bound by time; time is bound by none. Sooner or later, someone will come. Someone will break these chains and set me free.” Ravana smiled, almost amused by the certainty in Treta’s voice. “Oh? And who will dare do that? Who will free you from Ravana’s grasp?” The question hung in the air—and somewhere beyond the visible world, destiny had already begun to answer it.
The answer was Parashurama. Deep within a cave upon Mount Mahendragiri, the great warrior-sage sat immersed in meditation. Thousands of years had passed, yet he remained as still as stone, withdrawn from the affairs of the world. Brahma looked towards Vishnu. “But, Lord, he has been performing penance for thousands of years. How will he ever rise from it?” Narada shared the same concern. “And if someone attempts to awaken him, the fire of Parashurama’s wrath may consume that person to ashes.” Mahadev looked towards him with a faint, knowing calmness. “You speak the truth, Devarshi. But can one fire not confront another?” Far below, beneath the shadow of Mahendragiri, Treta’s wife stood alone with a burning torch in her hand. Tears filled her eyes, but behind those tears lived a fierce determination. “Parashurama, rise,” she pleaded towards the silent mountain. “End your penance. You must awaken. You must break your meditation. Rise, Parashurama. Come out.” Yet the mountain remained silent. Narada watched the woman and grew alarmed. “Lord, stop her.
She is attempting to awaken a sleeping lion. She does not understand that if Parashurama awakens, her own death may be certain.” Vishnu looked at him calmly. “When a woman’s husband is already trapped within the jaws of death, Devarshi, she no longer fears death for herself.” Mahadev revealed who she was—Treta’s wife, a woman who had come to seek Parashurama’s aid for the sake of her husband.
She raised the torch higher. “You must abandon your penance and rise, Parashurama. And if you refuse, I shall burn myself to ashes in this very fire.” Deep within the cave, Parashurama remained motionless. His eyes were closed, his breath slow and steady. “You understand the agony of being consumed by fire, do you not?” she cried. “Your mother, Renuka... she too was consumed by fire.” Something changed. A faint tremor passed across Parashurama’s brow. Behind his closed eyes came the memory of flames. He saw his mother. He heard her cries. He felt the unbearable pain of a memory that had remained buried for thousands of years. Sweat appeared upon his face. Outside, Treta’s wife continued. “Listen to me, Parashurama. I am Treta’s wife. Beneath this very place where you have chosen to perform your penance, I shall offer my life to the fire. But remember this—the burden of this sin shall remain upon your shoulders for ages to come.” Narada grew increasingly distressed. “Lord, she truly intends to sacrifice herself. Please stop her.” Brahma agreed. “To stand silently while another human being is trapped in danger is itself a sin. If Parashurama does not awaken, that woman will lose her life.” Yet Narada could see no sign that the warrior-sage would rise.
Treta’s wife lowered her voice. “Parashurama... if your penance matters more to you than the tears of a helpless woman, then I have no reason left to remain in this world. I am going.” She turned the torch towards herself. Inside the cave, something ancient and terrible awakened. Parashurama’s breathing became heavier. The memories of his mother’s suffering returned with overwhelming force. Renuka’s tears. The flames. Her cries. The pain he had buried beneath centuries of meditation. His entire being trembled. Then, suddenly, his eyes opened. At that exact moment, as Treta’s wife brought the torch towards herself, the earth beneath her feet began to shake. A deep rumble rose from within Mount Mahendragiri. Cracks tore across the mountain. Great slabs of rock split apart and thundered down its slopes. The heavens themselves seemed to tremble. Then came a deafening explosion. A vast cloud of dust swallowed the mountain, and for several moments nothing could be seen. But within that storm of dust, a dark silhouette slowly emerged. A figure stood upright, holding a parashu in his hand. As the dust cleared, Parashurama was revealed. His eyes burned with uncontrollable fury. His matted hair moved wildly in the storm, and the weapon in his hand seemed to carry the wrath of ages. He looked towards the heavens and let out a tremendous roar before leaping from the mountain.
In the next instant, Parashurama stood before Treta’s wife, the edge of his parashu resting dangerously close to her throat. She froze. The warrior-sage looked upon her with eyes filled with a fury that seemed capable of reducing the world to ashes. “Who you are does not concern me,” he said, his voice deep and terrible. “But before you meet your death, Parashurama shall tell you of the two grave sins you have committed. First—you have shattered thousands of years of my penance. And second—you have awakened the pain of my mother, a pain that had remained silent within me for thousands of years. For that...” His grip tightened around the parashu. “...you shall surely be punished.” He raised the weapon. Treta’s wife stood before him, helpless, while the heavens watched in silence. Then Parashurama struck. The parashu flashed through the air like lightning...
