स्त्रीणां मध्ये तपस्विनी या, ब्रह्मर्षिपत्नी सत्यव्रता।
पतने अपि या शुद्धा, स्मृति-पथेषु अमृतसमा॥
"Among women, she shone—wife of a sage, keeper of vows.
Though fallen by fate, she remained pure, immortal in remembrance."
Before the Silence
The hermitage was still, save for the slow rustle of sacred fig leaves. The river Gautami sang softly nearby, its waters carrying prayers whispered by the roots of old trees. The fragrance of sandalwood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the crushed tulsi leaves resting at the base of a yagna fire now grown cold.
She stood beside the sacred altar, tall and radiant.
Ahalya—the daughter of Brahma, the bride of Gautama Rishi, the first among women sculpted not from womb but from divine will.
She was beauty incarnate, but unaware of it.
Her hands bore the calluses of daily devotion. Her eyes—two lotus petals veiled in quiet intelligence—searched the skies, as if reading scriptures from the clouds.
"The winds speak less today," she murmured. "Perhaps Rishi Gautama delays his return."
She bent to gather fresh durva grass, offering it with care at the altar. The silence folded around her like a prayer unfinished.
Then came the voice.
Low, old, and wrapped in echoes of many yugas.
"Not all delays are curses, O daughter of divine thought. Sometimes they are doorways."
She turned, startled. A man stood there, yet not merely a man. His form was wrapped in robes darker than dusk, and on his shoulder perched a raven, silent and watching.
Ahalya narrowed her gaze. "Who enters a Rishi's hermitage uninvited, speaking as if time were his servant?"
He bowed—not in submission, but as if acknowledging a truth already known.
"Forgive me, Devi. I am Kakbhushundi, crow and seer, cursed and blessed. I do not seek to disturb... only to remember."
"Remember?" she asked. "I am not yet history."
"Ah, but you are," he replied, walking gently to the edge of the yagna pit. "Even before a tale is sung, it lives in the breath of those destined to tell it."
She folded her arms, regal. "Speak then, traveler. What memory do you carry of me?"
Kakbhushundi's eyes softened, a weight behind them no mortal should bear.
"In one world, your form turns to stone, punished for a sin not born of will but of illusion. You are deceived by a god cloaked in your husband's voice. And for ages, you lie silent—neither dead nor alive, forgotten by the world, untouched by the sky."
Ahalya's breath caught. "What crime have I committed in that vision?"
"None. And yet, the world does not always wait for truth to ripen. Even the innocent may wear the garland of guilt."
"And my Lord? Gautama?"
"He leaves. Wounded not by your actions, but by what they seem to be. In his anger, he curses the form you wear, not knowing that the curse will make you immortal."
She turned to the altar, her fingers trembling as they touched the sacred flame. "And what becomes of me?"
Kakbhushundi stepped closer, voice low as wind moving through ancient ruins.
"In that world, the Lord Vishnu descends—this time as Rama. He walks the earth not just to defeat adharma, but to heal the forgotten. And it is his touch—his feet—that will awaken you. Not from stone, but from the forgetting of your own light."
Ahalya turned her face upward, her voice no longer trembled.
"Then perhaps the stone is not a punishment. It is silence. Waiting for the sound of truth."
"Indeed," Kakbhushundi said. "You become the first to be redeemed in Rama's path. You are not the fallen... you are the beginning of remembrance."
She was silent, then asked, "And in other worlds?"
Kakbhushundi looked beyond the trees, his eyes tracing something only he could see.
"In some, your husband listens. In others, Indra is punished more harshly. In one strange telling, it is you who becomes a great teacher—living in a forest, guiding abandoned women. They call you Ahalya Devi, Mother of the Cast Out."
Ahalya breathed in deeply, as if to gather all the winds of all the worlds.
"And yet here I stand—unsure, untouched, unaware. What should I do with this knowing?"
Kakbhushundi placed a feather before the altar.
"Keep it in your heart. Do not resist the storm, for in its eye waits your quiet victory. When the world forgets your truth, hold it still in your silence."
She bowed—not to him, but to the flame.
"Let them cast stones of judgment. I shall turn them into shrines."
Kakbhushundi smiled. "Then you have already seen what I see."
He turned, the raven calling once into the brightening sky.
Before disappearing beyond the trees, he looked back once more.
"The world shall remember Ahalya not for her fall... but for rising when the earth had forgotten her name."